


A Study in Crimson

by LoLoGreeneVines



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoLoGreeneVines/pseuds/LoLoGreeneVines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-five years after a failed uprising, the Sherlock characters find themselves reaped into the hundredth annual Hunger Games. Of course, all is not quite as it seems. Failed Camp NaNoWriMo attempt I am going to finish anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock knew full well that he ought to be more worried than he was, as Mycroft had pointed out several times this was the year of the hundredth Hunger Games, thus a Quarter Quell, and the Capitol had just ordered that District Five would assemble in the main square and that all children between the ages of twelve and eighteen would have to be there.

Indeed, alarm bells were going off in the fourteen-year-old's head, ringing all the louder considering his parents and Mycroft were so worried, but Sherlock just couldn't bring himself to care too much. He kept on telling himself that it was the middle of winter, the Reaping couldn't possibly be occurring for at least another five months, ignoring the little voice inside his head whispering that this was a Quarter quell and the Capitol did whatever they damn well liked, tradition or no tradition.

Sherlock slowly put on his best suit and, hearing his bedroom door open, looked into his mirror, noticing his big brother standing in the doorframe with a solemn expression on his face.

"You look smart, 'Lock," Mycroft said, a sad smile appearing on his features. Sherlock scowled.

"Don't shorten my name, it's a juvenile thing to do and it's not proper," Sherlock snapped, folding his arms and watching as Mycroft entered the room properly and sat down on the boy's bed. Reluctantly, Sherlock shuffled over and set himself down next to his brother. However much he claimed to hate Mycroft, and however annoyingly pompous Mycroft had proven to be at the best of times, Sherlock had to admit that he did have a grudging respect for his brother and recognised that in a situation like this anything Mycroft had to say could be valuable.

Mycroft sighed. "Father says it's a Reaping," he said, carefully watching Sherlock, whose expression didn't falter. Of course, their father would know this, he was the Mayor of District Five and had been forced to make the announcement himself.

"I'm not bothered," Sherlock promptly responded. "There are thousands of boys in District Five between the ages of twelve and eighteen, the chances of me being reaped are astronomical even if you factor in my three entries."

If anything, this statement only served to make Mycroft's expression even more sombre. "Yes, that's what I thought, but then I was reaped," he said sadly, and reached out a hand to brush a curl of Sherlock's hair out of his eye. The boy gave Mycroft a dangerous look but didn't swat his hand away, instead turning towards his brother, who got off the bed and kneeled down in front of Sherlock, tying his shoes.

"I can do that myself, Mycroft," Sherlock said irritably, not letting Mycroft's logic bother him. After all, what _are_ the chances of two siblings both being reaped on separate occasions? Then again, what are the chances of the younger brother of a previous victor being reaped? Sherlock puzzled over this for a minute, reasoning that although the odds were beyond highly unlikely, it _was_ the sort of drama the Capitol sheep couldn't get enough of.

When Mycroft had finished tying his shoes, Sherlock pointedly drew his feet up to the bed, untied the knots and redid them himself as Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Really, Sherlock? Will you be so childish?"

"I am a child, in case you hadn't noticed, brother dear," Sherlock retorted. "Besides, I am not particularly fond of the way you tied them."

"Of course," Mycroft said softly, rolling his eyes subtly as the boys' mother appeared in the room.

"Are you ready, Sherlock?" she asked nervously, and as he nodded she took his hand and led him out of the room, Mycroft following in their wake. As they reached the landing, Sherlock's father emerged from the master bedroom and joined the family party as they walked down the stairs and out of the house, towards the square.

The Holmes family manor was a lovely old building built just after the uprising a century ago. One of the largest homes in the entire district, it was made of an attractive grey stone with ivy creeping up the walls and picturesque, sweeping grounds in which Sherlock had spent much of his childhood collecting insects and just generally being curious about the world around him. The house was furnished with handsome, polished oak and it was clear to all who visited that the Holmes family were significantly more affluent than the vast majority of District Five, many of whom were starving.

In fact, as the family made their way down the street Sherlock caught sight of several dangerously thin kids of about his own age walking the same way, mournful expressions adorning their visages. Despite the fact that Sherlock was largely apathetic to other people's problems he couldn't help but reflect on how allowing people to starve just wasn't right, it resulted in the vastly underutilised sources of potential intelligence if nothing else. Granted, most people were idiots but you never did know who might be the one to cure the common cold. After all, District Five produced power for the entirety of Panem and was the biggest on scientific research and medicine, and you could never have enough scientists in the world. The thought that many great contributors to the world of science wouldn't even make it to their teenage years and many breakthroughs would be delayed, or never happen because of this, sent Sherlock into a fury. _The Capitol is restricting scientific progress_ , Sherlock thought, and that was enough to cause him to harbour deeply rebellious sentiment towards the regime.

The rest of Sherlock's family did all they could to help the starving waifs in the district, Sherlock's mother giving generously to charity, his father creating as many jobs as possible on his coal plant to give to those most in need and Mycroft shaping up to take over his father's role as Mayor and head of the coal plant. However, even if the Holmses gave up everything they had they could not afford to feed the thousands upon thousands of hungry mouths sharing district space with them. The rumours that it was worse in other districts was naturally of no consolation to them.

As the family approached the famous square in the centre of the district, large enough to house thirty thousand people, Sherlock's father stopped the party and, turning to face Sherlock, grasped the boy's shoulders and gave his son a worried look.

"Make sure you don't end up reaped, Sherlock," he said. "Even I can't get you out of that situation." Sherlock stared back steadily at him, gave a firm nod and watched as his father gave his mother a kiss and looked expectantly at Mycroft, who was brushing back the stubborn dark curl that had fallen in front of Sherlock's right eye again. Mycroft gave Sherlock a last look before he and their father disappeared into the crowd, no doubt so Mr. Holmes could make the speech the Capitol forced him to give every year.

Sherlock was somewhat surprised when his mother swooped upon him, enveloping him with her arms. Ordinarily he couldn't stand physical contact but Sherlock found himself perfectly willing to return the hug, understanding that she was worried for him even though as far as he was concerned she didn't have much need to be.

"Be safe, Sherlock," she said, before giving his forehead a kiss and gently pushing him forward into the confused looking crowd.

Sherlock looked towards the stage he knew would have been erected on the North side of the square, where he knew his father would be. Sure enough, he saw his father mounting the platform, closely followed by Mycroft. As Mycroft sat down at the back of the stage, Mr. Holmes made his way to the conveniently placed microphone stand at the front and spoke.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of District Five," he said, as the crowd grew silent and turned to give him their full attention. "You might all be wondering why you've all been called out here today on such a cold afternoon. The Capitol has asked me to inform you that due to the fact that this year's Hunger Games is a Quarter Quell, the rules are a bit different. The reaping has been moved forward to today." The crowd broke out into a panicked-sounding chatter, and Sherlock's father waited a few seconds to speak again. "In addition to the bringing forward of the Games, nobody is allowed to volunteer in place of the chosen tributes this year." Sherlock could practically hear his father thinking ' _please, Sherlock, don't end up picked._ '

"Would all boys and girls between the ages of twelve and eighteen present themselves in the appropriate lines to be registered, and don't forget to inform your Peacekeeper if you wish to enter your name for tesserae. The tables are by the stage. Thank you." Sherlock watched as his father retreated to the back of the stage, muttering urgently to Mycroft.

Sherlock found himself being jostled into a line of boys, clearly being pushed towards the tables by Peacekeepers. Sherlock could hear conversations going on around him but didn't feel the need to join in, nobody much liked him anyway. Fair enough. He didn't like them either.

Sherlock reached the front of the line and found a man in a white uniform asking for his name. Sherlock gave it, watched his name flash up on a small screen as they verified him. He was quickly waved on and took his place in one of the makeshift pens that were being erected, effectively splitting the square in half. Over the course of the next half an hour the rest of the potential tributes filed in, nervously awaiting the almost certain death sentence for whichever two unlucky children ended up with their names pulled out.

Glancing up at the stage Sherlock noticed Mycroft keenly training his sight on Sherlock, most likely looking for signs of fear. _Worry not, brother, nothing scares me_ , Sherlock thought, and even from a distance Sherlock could have sworn his brother's left eyebrow had been raised a centimetre. Sherlock scanned the makeshift platform for information and noticed two large glass balls, each with thousands of slips of paper inside that hadn't been there before. Once all eligible children were accounted for and sorted into their pens Sherlock's father took to the stage once again, all the district's eyes on him.

Mr Holmes proceeded to recite the annual speech he was forced to give every year, the infernal speech which always had bothered him. He had always said that it was simply an opportunity for the Capitol to put words in his mouth in order to extol the virtues of the Games and justify their actions, and that he wasn't able to deviate at all from the script for the Capitol was eagerly watching the reaping on their own televisions several hundred miles away and would know immediately if something were amiss.

Sherlock was calculating odds in his head as quickly as he could and as such was not listening too attentively (how often had he heard his father take the speech apart in the privacy of their own home?) but he caught various snatches of the speech, individual phrases which were blatantly untrue.

"Giving thanks..."? What for, not blowing up the country on a whim? "Strong leadership..."? If you count oppression and censorship, yeah. "Mercy and kindness..."? That was such a blatant contradiction Sherlock didn't even know where to begin. Sherlock was paying so little attention to his father he didn't even realise he had finished his speech until everybody around him was reluctantly applauding and a woman with the Capitol's customary bad taste (an orange waist-length perm and hot pink cocktail dress which made Sherlock feel physically ill) mounted the stage and gave the crowd a wide smile.

"Good afternoon, District Five! And what a lovely afternoon it is!" she declared, evidently oblivious to the fact that every single eyebrow in the crowd was being raised: the overcast sky and chilly drizzle surely couldn't be anybody's idea of a lovely afternoon. _It's nearly as bad as clear skies and the sun beating down_ , Sherlock thought. The strange woman continued speaking. "Let me tell you, District Five, it is just such an honour to be here! I have acted as escort for many of the districts in the past but this is my first time here and I must say, I already feel welcomed by all of you!" Sherlock glanced around at his pen-mates and knew immediately that being accommodating was far from the minds of the district at the moment.

Ginger waffled on a bit about her afternoon and Sherlock filtered out the entire speech, making sure to tune back in when the woman announced "let's have the girls first!" She put her hand inside one of the glass balls, rooted around a bit and withdrew a small slip of paper. She unfurled it dramatically and read out "Molly Hooper!"

_Ah, Molly_ , Sherlock thought as a man and a woman somewhere on the edge of the crowd burst into hysterical sobs. He was familiar with miss Molly Hooper, she was in his year at school, often worked with him in science lessons. He had nothing against her but found her to be generally a bit irritating. _Still, pity_ , he thought as two Peacekeepers descended on a certain spot in the girls' pen and emerged leading the terrified looking girl out of the crowd, which was buzzing. _Molly actually did have a brain, albeit in a fluffy pink package. What a waste of that brain to receive such a death sentence, for surely mousey Molly is incapable of putting up much of a fight. She'll be one of the first to go_ , Sherlock judged.

"Wonderful, come up here, darling!" Ginger cooed as Molly hesitantly made her way up the makeshift steps. Sherlock could see identical looks of semi-concealed reservation on both his father's and Mycroft's faces and the sound of Molly's parents despairing in the distance penetrated his thoughts. When Molly reached Ginger the woman clamped an arm around Molly's side, pinning her firmly but not forcibly in place. "Ladies and gentlemen of District Five, a big round of applause for your new tribute Molly Hooper!" The throng gave Molly some scattered applause and the girl gave a small, uncertain curtsey, obviously forcing her features to remain in control.

Ginger pointed Molly towards a spare chair next to Mycroft's and gestured for hush after Molly had stumbled away. "And now for the boys!" Ginger cried, making her way over to the second glass ball and once again carefully selecting a slip of paper. She staggered back to the microphone stand ( _that's what happens if you will insist on wearing six inch heels, madam_ ) and addressed the crowd clearly.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock's brain hadn't even processed this turn of events before he heard the cry of his mother from where they had entered the square, a truly distraught sound Sherlock had hoped to never hear again after the only other time he heard it: when Mycroft was reaped. Sherlock suddenly became aware that he was being seized by two burly Peacekeepers, who were frogmarching him up the narrow gap between the two pens towards the stage. Aside from his mother's sobbing, the crowd was now completely silent. Of course, it would be, Sherlock was deeply unpopular with everybody else his own age. It didn't even matter that volunteers had been forbidden this year as there would certainly have been nobody willing to go in Sherlock's place.

As he approached the stage, Sherlock glanced up and saw his father and Mycroft. Mycroft was wearing a sad but determined expression, but Sherlock could see that all cameras would be on his father, normally so strong and dependable, who had broken down into tears. For the first time, Sherlock understood just how horrible it must have been for his parents to receive one son back from the Games, against all odds, and then to have the other packed off to almost certain death only a few years later. He didn't feel afraid as such, but for once Sherlock did feel resigned and sorry for his parents.

Once Sherlock had reached the stairs he made eye-contact with Molly, who was looking even paler than she had when she had been reaped herself. He nodded briskly at her and she turned green. He gracefully climbed up the stairs to be greeted by Ginger, who was even more hideous in person. As Sherlock inspected her repulsive blood-red eyeliner and silver-blue lipstick she clamped him to her side as she had done with Molly and once again asked the district for a round of applause, a request which was met, as Sherlock had predicted, with complete silence.

Ginger held him in place for a few seconds, grinning at the crowd in the square, but as soon as it was apparent he was going to receive no applause from his peers she just directed him towards the chairs at the back of the stage.

"Well, thank you very much, ladies and gents!" Ginger squealed excitably at the crowd. "I shall now hand you over to Mayor Holmes who will go over the Treaty of Treason." She herself ambled towards the chairs, handing the microphone over to Sherlock's father who was simply sitting, looking at Sherlock. After a few seconds, he realised that he was to talk and got up to give the rest of the speech he was so used to giving, inevitably to stumble over his words in distraction.

"What did I say, Sherlock?" Mycroft murmured as their father stammered into the microphone, all eyes in District Five and the Capitol undoubtedly on him. "It's not about chance, anybody at all can be reaped."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, about to explain why it was indeed all about chance, when Mycroft spoke again, addressing both Sherlock and Molly.

"I suppose this makes me the mentor to the pair of you. Mrs. Hudson, District Five's penultimate victor from the sixty-first Hunger Games will serve as deputy mentor and help me to properly prepare you both. I daresay we'll have a chance to properly discuss arrangements in due course, but now is not the time." As Mycroft finished his pompous mini-lecture their father also brought his speech to a close, asking Sherlock and Molly to join him at the front of the stage again and shake hands. Sherlock held out his hand in a businesslike fashion and was surprised when Molly responded by giving it a slight squeeze. Sherlock thought she must be trying to reassure herself, for surely his own body language wasn't showing alarm.

The pair turned to face the audience, District Five and Capitol cameras alike, and the national anthem of Panem played. Sherlock noticed Molly gazing at him with a half-smile and looked back at her thoughtfully. _Of course_ , he reasoned. _She must already be plotting my death. Good luck to her._


	2. Chapter 2

Once Sherlock's father had left the stage, along with Ginger and Mycroft, Sherlock and Molly found themselves being separated and each dragged by a heavily built Peacekeeper into the town hall off the square. Sherlock was flung by his Peacekeeper into a well-furnished, luxurious room just inside the door and he caught sight of Molly being led up the corridor before the heavy wooden door was slammed shut and Sherlock took a seat on one of the comfortable chairs on the other side of the room. _Of course. They're about to drag mother and father in to say goodbye._

Sure enough, after a couple of minutes the door creaked open and Sherlock's parents fell in clutching each other, closely followed by Mycroft. Sherlock's mother disentangled herself from her husband and latched on to Sherlock, clinging so tightly he could barely draw breath. Sherlock never had been particularly good at comforting others but he patted her back as she sobbed into his skinny shoulder. Sherlock made eye contact with his father over his mother's shoulder and was startled to see the man crying again.

"Sherlock, I know you enjoy rebelling against anything I tell you to do, but this is ridiculous," he said, his mouth twisted into a sad smile. Sherlock knew his father's tendency to console himself with humour and didn't protest, despite being somewhat irritated. Mrs. Holmes clung even tighter to Sherlock.

"Make sure you win, darling, I couldn't lose either of my boys," she whispered, letting go of Sherlock and instead putting a hand either side of his face, brushing his dark curls back and running over his oddly protruding cheekbones with her thumbs. Sherlock fought the urge to scowl at her, however much he loathed being mollycoddled. The sight of his mother's tears always had held some strange power over Sherlock, making him inexplicably uncomfortable and instilling in him a desire to make the person responsible for those tears hurt.

Sherlock glanced over his mother's shoulder again and noticed Mycroft scrutinising him carefully.

"Please try to win, Sherlock," Mr. Holmes said, his voice breaking. "I don't think I'd be able to handle your mother if you didn't." _Great. More humour._

"Don't worry, father, I intend to," Sherlock replied coolly. Mycroft obviously raised an eyebrow.

"Sherlock, it's not that easy," Mycroft said calmly. "You think right now that Molly Hooper isn't a threat at all because she looks small and delicate but people change in the arena and you have no idea who the other tributes are going to be. It could turn out that you trip over your own feet at the cornucopia before the games start and you end up blown up. Nobody can be certain of winning."

"Everything has its time and everything dies," Sherlock retorted coldly. Their mother only responded by bursting into fresh waves of tears, frantically clawing at her younger son as though trying to prove to herself that he wasn't dead already. The faintest twinge of guilt made its way into Sherlock's subconscious at the sight of his mother so upset. Sherlock saw that his father had turned completely white and was now clutching Mycroft for support.

The family stood in silence for a while, taking comfort from each others' presence and the fear that they would probably never exist as a unit like this again, until the door banged open and two Peacekeepers entered the room. Sherlock stood up and turned away as his family was escorted from the room.

"We love you, darling," his mother called.

"I love you too," Sherlock replied, so softly he wasn't even sure they had heard him over the sound of the Peacekeepers' heavy footsteps on the hard wood floor. Sherlock heard the door closing and sat down, his back to the door.

"You're not afraid."

Mycroft's voice floated over from the other side of the room and Sherlock immediately felt annoyed.

"Of course not."

"You're a fool, Sherlock," Mycroft replied smoothly. Sherlock was taken-aback.

"Why fear the inevitable?" Sherlock snapped, turning around to face his brother and folding his arms.

"You didn't think this was so inevitable three hours ago," Mycroft said softly, giving Sherlock a sanctimonious little nod. Sherlock had only formulated half a retort before Mycroft spoke again. "What was that expression on your face? The one you wore when mother was stroking your hair? It looked awfully rebellious, Sherlock, don't you go getting any ideas. You know your history, what happened twenty-five years ago?"

Sherlock's irritation deepened. "I have no time for history. The books are all written by the winners of whichever war was going on at the time, and nobody ever learns from other people's mistakes."

Mycroft only raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what you do, things that nobody else does?" he said, looking pointedly at Sherlock. "Sherlock, I know you know the story of Katniss Everdeen. Twenty-six years ago she made history by standing up to the Capitol by finding a way to save both herself and the other District Twelve tribute, the final two remaining in the Games. She made a mockery of them, completely humiliated President Snow, and then she went back home to her district, got married to the other District Twelve tribute, became pregnant and started spreading word of a rebellion. Naturally, President Snow didn't take too kindly to this so he simply had her executed when nobody was looking."

"Well, if the girl was stupid enough to go around shouting about an uprising it's entirely her fault," Sherlock said dispassionately.

"That's not the point, Sherlock, they would have found a way to make her pay for undermining the Capitol's regime," Mycroft pointed out. "They can simply make people disappear. If nothing else, think about your father's role in District Five. Without him, more people would suffer and Panem's power output might not be sufficient. Don't sabotage the district, Sherlock."

Sherlock's scowl deepened, but it appeared Mycroft had finished his sermon because he said nothing as the sound of approaching footsteps outside the door started to crescendo.

"What you said earlier," Sherlock said quickly. "About people changing in the arena. Is that what happened to you?"

Mycroft inhaled sharply, tilting his head up and surveying Sherlock warily over the bridge of his nose, but said nothing as the door opened and the two Peacekeepers escorted him out. Sherlock sat back down and waited patiently to be escorted out of the room himself, certain that nobody else would deign to visit before he was whisked off to his death sentence.

Soon, the Peacekeepers returned and Sherlock found himself being dragged outside and into a car. It was a ten minute drive to the railway station and when they arrived Sherlock saw that the place was flooded with cameras, all eager for close-ups of the chosen tributes. He gave the crews his customary scowl, being sure to look particularly surly for the equipment which was presumably broadcasting his image onto the television sets of thousands of Capitol citizens right now.

Sherlock caught sight of Molly Hooper on one of the television sets on the platform and realised that she had obviously been crying. _Silly girl_ , Sherlock thought, _doesn't she know that will only make her look weak in the eyes of the Capitol? Weak is dull. They want entertainment_. Sherlock then noticed that she was nervously glancing at him, a weak smile playing about her mouth. _Pretending to be friendly but undoubtedly still plotting my death. How tremendously ambitious of her._

After a good few minutes of milling around the cameras Sherlock was ushered onto an awaiting train, along with Molly, and the locomotive immediately began to move. Sherlock was amazed by how quickly it was picking up speed, after just five seconds the platform was out of sight and they had turned a corner. Sherlock and Molly walked up the corridor and were greeted by Mycroft, Ginger and elderly Mrs. Hudson, a pleasant-looking old lady with a kindly face and a steely glint of determination in her eye that somewhat detracted from the "sweet old lady" image the rest of her was exuding.

"And there are our tributes!" Ginger squealed excitably, jumping up and down slightly so her hideous pink shoes made unpleasant clacking noises against the floor. "Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson here are going to show you to your rooms now so you can get settled in before dinner in a couple of hours. How does that sound?" Neither Sherlock nor Molly objected, so Mycroft beckoned to Sherlock to follow him back down the corridor and Mrs. Hudson led Molly the other way.

Mycroft led Sherlock to a surprisingly solid looking door and opened it, revealing a lavishly decorated bedroom with three doors off - bathroom, wardrobe and presumably dressing area. Mycroft followed Sherlock in and as soon as he had closed the door behind them Sherlock piped up "does Pinky always have to be so perky?"

Mycroft sighed wearily. "Sherlock, I know you weren't listening to father's speech earlier, but from now on you really do need to make more of an effort to learn people's names. ' _Pinky_ ' is actually called Hope. Hope Jefferson."

"Irony. And everybody assumes the Capitol doesn't have a sense of humour," Sherlock deadpanned, flopping onto his bed and creasing his suit. Mycroft winced.

"Not to worry, there are plenty of suits in the wardrobe you can choose from," Mycroft said, more to himself than Sherlock who evidently couldn't care less how scruffy he looked. "You need to be making a good impression, 'Lock, or do you not want sponsors?" Sherlock frowned at the abbreviation of his name but internally conceded that his brother may have a point.

"I won't get any," Sherlock said. "For some reason nobody appreciates hearing the truth about anything and I refuse to behave in a 'more acceptable manner' just because it's what people want to hear."

"Then you'll just have to learn how to not get people's backs up all the time," Mycroft said smoothly.

 _Great. Why don't you give me a complete lesson on what to say to everybody in response to anything at all they could possibly ask, then, Mycroft, because I don't have every theoretically possible social interaction mapped out in my head?_ Sherlock thought, mutinously. Mycroft must have noticed Sherlock's dangerous expression because he took the opportunity to withdraw from the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Sherlock to stew.

Two hours later there was a knock on the door. Sherlock didn't respond, so the door opened and Mycroft peered his head around, tutting when he saw that Sherlock hadn't bothered changing out of his wrinkled suit.

"Sherlock, food's ready."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said lazily, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the side of the bed he was still sitting on.

"For goodness' sake, Sherlock, in a week's time you will be thrown into a vicious arena and pushed beyond your limits in order to survive. You are ridiculously skinny, you desperately need to put on some muscle before you can go out there."

"Stop ordering me around, Mycroft, I'm more resilient than you think," Sherlock pouted.

"Prove it," Mycroft said patiently. "Survive a meal in our company."

Sherlock glowered at Mycroft, unable to come up with a suitably cutting retort, and grudgingly followed him back out into the corridor and towards a stately-looking dining room.

Once in the dining room Sherlock spotted a table already laid with elegant silverware and fine crockery, which Hope, Molly and Mrs. Hudson were already sitting at. Molly gave Sherlock one of her nervous smiles and he opted to take the seat next to her, intentionally putting as much space between himself and Mycroft as he could.

Several waiters promptly emerged from a room which could only have been the kitchen, carrying a pile of bowls and a giant tureen of cream of asparagus soup. Despite Sherlock's earlier protest he ate eagerly, realising that actually he wanted to give himself every advantage possible in the arena. The group ate quietly, the silence occasionally broken by a request to pass the salt or to applaud the cooking. Once the group had finished their soup, the waiters took away the tureen and returned with a large bowl of salad, and then later on with a rich lamb casserole, then a cheese board, and finally a white chocolate gateaux which Sherlock couldn't get enough of. Sherlock noticed Mycroft approvingly watching him devour the cake and felt an irritation about the fact that he was doing exactly what his brother wanted him to do.

After the meal, the group moved into a different room with a large TV screen and watched the recaps of all of the reapings. Among the endless parade of dull-looking tributes this year a few of them stood out to Sherlock as potentially interesting, in particular a beautiful girl from District One who wore a mischievous expression and had an aura of intelligence ( _she looks more than capable of causing a bit of trouble_ ), the short male tribute with a fluffy jumper from District Two who was brave enough making his own way up to the stage but broke down when the terrified-looking female tribute was chosen ( _must have been friends from school - he's altruistic, cares more for others than himself. Possibly an easy target for manipulation, probably not much of a threat: I'll have to keep an eye on him, he might be useful_ ), the tall, well-built male tribute from District Four who looked ready to snap anybody's neck ( _doesn't come across as particularly clever but would make light work of killing me - I'll have to stay out of his way_ ) and a slight, sneaky-looking raven-haired boy from District Eight who simultaneously managed to give off the impression of being a bit dull, extremely cunning and endlessly fascinating. Sherlock didn't know how he did it, but he was intrigued.

Once the national anthem played and the programme had ended, Hope spoke.

"What do you think of those other tributes then, Mycroft?"

"Watch out for all of them. That boy from Eight is obviously insane, the girl from Ten is an idiot but she'll do what she has to in order to win, Seven's boy looks kindly but is determined and the girl from Eleven looks meek and mild but there's something to look out for in her grin. Obviously, that boy from Four will snap you both like twigs if he gets his hands on you." Molly gulped.

"What about the boy from District Two? Any thoughts?" Sherlock asked. As much as he hated having to ask Mycroft for anything, let alone advice, Sherlock was fascinated by the unassuming looking boy and wanted as much information as possible - it wasn't beyond the realms of possibility that he had overlooked something that Mycroft may have picked up on.

"Yes. He's quickly going to become a killer," Mycroft responded coldly.

"How did you get that? His fluffy jumper? The way he burst into tears in front of everybody when his school friend was reaped?" Sherlock demanded incredulously.

Mycroft sighed exasperatedly. "I'm not even going to bother trying to explain, Sherlock, you'll understand soon enough."

"Well, I think that means it's bedtime!" Hope declared, shooing Sherlock and Molly in the direction of their quarters.

Once in his room, Sherlock selected a pair of deep plum silk pyjamas and changed into them slowly, about as enthusiastic about the idea of going to sleep as he was about the idea of the arena. As he was lying in bed, watching the stars out of the window he heard a genteel knock on the door. "Come in," he said, hoping against hope it wasn't his brother again. He'd seen more than enough of Mycroft in the last twenty-four hours for a lifetime, thank you very much.

"It's only me, deary," came a gentle voice, and Mrs. Hudson entered. "Are you quite all right? You're putting on quite a brave face, are you sure you really feel as indifferent as you're coming across?"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm fine, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said pointedly.

"Oh, not to worry, I only ask because I've seen tributes doing it before. You know I'm here if you want to talk to me," she said, kindly. "While I'm here, would you like a cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied. The woman smiled pleasantly at him and left the room, returning three minutes later with a cup of tea. "Thank you," he said, turning the corners of his mouth up into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Good night, dear," Mrs. Hudson said quietly, slipping out of the room and leaving Sherlock to finish his tea and get ready for bed.

The next morning Sherlock was awoken to Hope standing by the side of his bed, gesticulating wildly.

"Up you get! Today is going to be busy busy busy! Come and have your breakfast!" she announced, flinging the curtains open. Sherlock squinted as the room was flooded with bright sunlight, and Hope left the room, seeing that Sherlock was awake.

Sherlock didn't even bother getting dressed, he simply donned a dark blue dressing gown and slouched out of his room and into the dining room, which now had a table complete with an assortment of strange foods he had never seen before.

"Good morning, Sherlock!" Molly offered, looking at him hopefully from the table she was sitting at. "You should try one of those curly pastry things! They call them cross... crass... something," she said, her eyes wide.

"You don't have to attempt to make pleasant conversation with me, Molly, we both know that in a week's time you will be trying to kill me," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. Molly deflated and returned to eating her croissant in silence.

Sherlock sat down at a different table and ate his breakfast quickly, retiring to his room to get dressed as quickly as he could. A few minutes later, Mycroft entered the room quietly, not even bothering to knock.

"We're about to arrive at the Capitol railway station, Sherlock. You are to put on a good show for the cameras at the station and you will immediately be handed over to your stylist, to be prepared for the opening ceremony. You are to do exactly what your stylist says: you will hate it but you are not to put up a fight under any circumstances. Do you understand me?" Sherlock nodded sullenly and glanced out of the window, noticing everything had gone pitch dark. They must be in a tunnel.

"Right. Meet me in the dining room in five minutes, I'll go and fetch Miss Hooper," Mycroft added, briskly striding from the room.

Sherlock finished preparing and left the room, out into the corridor and towards the dining room, where Mycroft and Molly were already deep in conversation, Mrs. Hudson chiming in on occasion.

"Ooh, isn't this exciting?" Hope squeaked enthusiastically, as the train began slowing down before being brought to a halt. Sherlock and Molly found themselves being propelled towards the door leading to the platform, and it slowly slid open.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was blinded by lights before he even stepped out of the train as the Capitol cameras crowded around him and Molly. Sherlock wasn't exactly mindful of the concept of personal space but it was very easy to feel claustrophobic as the crews pushed in, eager to get a good shot of District Five's newest stars. Looking past the multitude of recording equipment, Sherlock caught sight of a large gaggle of Capitol citizens keen to catch a glimpse of him. Sherlock made a point of scowling moodily for them but then he noticed Molly standing beside him, smiling obligingly and giving curtseys and blown kisses. The crowd applauded her, but Sherlock just muttered to her out of the corner of his mouth.

"Don't bother, Molly, none of them will sponsor you: they all know you'll be dead within two days." Molly's smile fell from her face as though it had been melted off, but she continued to wave as the pair were ushered into separate cars to be driven off to meet their stylists.

Once their convoy had reached an old building off the road leading to the City Circle Sherlock followed his escort out and was led in to the building and left on his own in a surgically spotless room. After a few minutes of sitting, bored, a door slid open and three scarily dressed Capitolites marched in.

"Hi, we're your prep team," the tallest one, with frighteningly green hair and a turquoise poncho said. "I'm Pisca, and this is Aulid and Dorix," she said, indicating in turn to a tiny little man with a yellow wig and an eyepatch, and a very thin woman with ivy tattoos swirling up her neck and shining silver hair, both of whom gave Sherlock smiles as they were introduced.

"I thought I was to be given a stylist," Sherlock pointed out.

"You are, honey, we're just here to make you presentable for her," Aulid said, advancing on Sherlock with a pair of tweezers.

"You mean to say that my stylist shall not deign to set eyes on me until I look like some Adonis?" Sherlock said cuttingly, warily eyeing the bizarre instruments being wielded by the team. "What do you intend to do to me with those contraptions?"

"Oh, nothing scary, darling, just a full body wax and polish, some eyebrow reshaping and a touch of make-up," Pisca replied smoothly. "Now, please take all of your clothes off."

Sherlock just gawped at her. "What?"

An hour and several fights later Sherlock was standing nude in the middle of the room with his prep team gazing at him, admiring his hairless, shining body.

"Yes, you'll look _very_ nice once Skye has done with you," Pisca said appreciatively.

"I can't wait to see what she does!" Dorix squeaked. "I bet you're excited for this, looking all nice on television! I know I am!"

Sherlock resisted the urge to point out that he could hardly get too excited about the prospect of his impending murder, instead opting to reach for a dressing gown.

"Don't worry about that, darling, Skye will just make you take it off anyway," Pisca said. Sherlock's hand went limp as he abandoned his efforts to cover up. _What does it matter, anyway_? Sherlock thought. _The body is only transport. Still, I am rather cold._

As the prep team exited the room, leaving Sherlock to stand naked on his own, another door opened and a tall, pale woman with puffy light blue hair and wearing what looked like a dress made out of blue and white cotton wool breezed in. She didn't even greet Sherlock, she just revolved around him like a vulture circling its prey, examining every inch of him.

"Oh, you'll do nicely," the woman said, breaking a smile. "Yes, I can easily work with this." She gazed at his face. "What fascinating eyes you have! Blue one minute, grey the next, and their shape! Granted, they're a bit small, but that's nothing we can't fix with some make-up. Pisca did a good job on your eyebrows' shape, but they could really do with a slightly darker tint. We can fix that. As for those cheekbones, well, it would be a crime to not highlight them." She looked down at his chest. "Your overall physique may not be perfect for the Games but it's ideal for presentation, slim but somewhat muscular always goes down well with the crowds."

"Are you going to stop objectifying my body soon, or am I to just stand here forever while you gawp at it?" Sherlock demanded. Skye seemed unperturbed.

"I'm just trying to work out what to do with you, sweetie," Skye said, smiling pleasantly at Sherlock. "I know how I'm going to dress you but I need to work a couple of things out. How big are your feet?"

"About a size eight," Sherlock said, doubtfully eyeing the pair of large batteries Skye was pulling out of a cupboard.

"Excellent, these will fit you perfectly then," she said, smiling. Sherlock raised his left eyebrow.

"You mean my costume is a pair of batteries?"

"No, silly, these have been turned into shoes. They will power your costume," Skye said, her eyes twinkling. "You know how each tribute is dressed to represent their district? I'm going to make you _glow_ with power!" As she said this, Skye opened a wardrobe door and brought out a long string of light emitting diodes with small silver Velcro patches along the wire.

"So, you're dressing me in LEDs?" Sherlock clarified.

"That I am, Sherlock! Eleio, my partner, and I have decided, you're to wear green LEDs and Molly Hooper is to wear red. We thought the green might provoke your glasz eyes into going green, which would make you stand out to the Capitol. We want you to look unique, which is why we're putting you and Molly into glowing outfits: they rather went out of fashion after the Everdeen fiasco so I'm bringing them back in, even though this is rather different from that fire."

"It would be rather difficult to receive the nickname "The Boy Who Got Burned" from LEDs, they're incredibly efficient," Sherlock said to himself. "Even so, I can't imagine anything more ridiculous than wearing fairy lights."

"Fashion is a huge part of Capitol life, and if you want to appeal to them you will do exactly as I say, got it?" Skye said firmly, a formidable expression on her face.

"This is absurd," Sherlock said under his breath.

"Fine," Skye snapped. "I was just trying to keep you alive. You can go out there naked if you like, see if I care. Actually," she said thoughtfully, "you could do a lot worse than naked, you'd certainly leave an impression..." Skye's speech trailed off as she glanced at Sherlock's body. "Would you like to do that?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"I think I'd rather wear the LEDs than have a load of poorly-dressed people ogling my naked body," Sherlock conceded. For somebody who had previously been excited by the thought of him wearing her fairy lights, Skye looked oddly disappointed.

"Well, you'll go nicely with Molly," Skye said, taking a silver jumpsuit out of the wardrobe and almost reluctantly handing it to Sherlock, who immediately put it on, noticing it was made out of Velcro.

"Come here, Sherlock," Skye said, holding out the long string of light emitting diodes and indicating that he was to step into the makeshift battery shoes.

Skye proceeded to spin Sherlock, effectively mummifying him with thousands upon thousands of LED lights, so there eventually wasn't an inch of his jumpsuit uncovered. Skye connected the very end of the wire to the shoes and raced to turn off the lights, looking expectantly at Sherlock.

"Am I supposed to be doing something?" he asked dryly, his pallid face shining in the darkness.

"Stamp your right foot," Skye demanded. Sherlock complied and the room was immediately illuminated with a ghostly green glow, as each one of the several thousand lights flickered on.

"Wow, you do look good in green," Skye said, grinning broadly. "Yes, I think you'll leave quite an impression with the Capitol. Now we just need to sort out your eyebrows and get your hair to behave. Your lashes could probably do with a tint, too, I don't know what Pisca was thinking."

Sherlock scowled, disgruntled by the fact that Skye was so determined to make him look "attractive." As far as he was concerned, a body was a body, purely there to serve a purpose. Sherlock didn't understand the Capitol's fascination with aesthetics and appearances, and he was very apprehensive about allowing Skye to attack him with instruments to change something unimportant. He allowed her to tint his eyebrows a darker shade of brown but when Skye approached his head with a pair of straighteners and a large brush he lashed out.

"My hair stays as it is," he said, clearly.

Skye regarded him for a moment, frowning at his dark, wavy mop. "Sherlock, I'm really trying my best to help you..."

"Then don't. I'm almost certainly going to die in the Games, assaulting my head isn't going to change that fact," he said silkily, his eyes narrowed. Skye sighed and put the brush down, turning on the light.

"Look, Sherlock, I can't force you to do anything. I can tell you what the best course of action here would be, but if you're going to blatantly disregard anything I say then I can't help you."

"I don't need help," Sherlock said darkly, picking up Skye's hairbrush and snapping it.

Skye regarded Sherlock for a second, before closing her eyes in resignation. "All right, then, let's bring the others in. Wait here for a second." She walked over to the door and left the room, returning a minute later with Molly and her stylist, a golden-skinned man with lilac eyeliner. Mycroft followed them in. Sherlock was relieved to see that Molly looked every bit as silly as he did, adorned in a similar string of red lights and a silver velcro jumpsuit.

"You look good, Sherlock. Suits you," Molly said, the words seemingly making their own way out of her mouth for she looked embarrassed that she had said anything at all. As she blushed furiously Sherlock glanced away towards Mycroft.

"Anything you want to say, Mycroft?" he asked, his voice strained with annoyance.

"Mrs. Hudson agrees with me that you might like to think about smiling, when you go out in front of everybody," Mycroft said delicately. "You want to make a good impression."

"Actually," Skye said, "I was wondering whether it might suit him more to go for the dark, brooding underdog type image?"

"Absolutely not," Mycroft said. "That's too risky a tactic. He must make the effort to appear friendly."

"I bloody well will not put on airs and graces to cater to the whims of a group of freaks who think I look lovely dressed up like a Christmas tree!" Sherlock exploded. Mycroft dragged Sherlock aside.

"Sherlock, are you _trying_ to ensure you don't stand a chance in the Games?" he whispered urgently. "Because if you are, think about mother and father. How do you think they would feel if they knew that their youngest son was being so blasé with his own life?"

"Does it really matter? Statistically, I don't stand a chance anyway," Sherlock grumbled, edging his way back to Molly, her stylist and Skye so as to end his conversation with Mycroft as quickly as possible.

"Well, the opening ceremony is due to start in twenty minutes so we'd better get you both prepared," Mycroft said, still eyeing Sherlock warily.

"Quite right," said Eleio. Skye took the lead, opening the door and gesturing to the group to follow her down a corridor.

Along the way, Sherlock heard Mycroft talking urgently at him and Molly but didn't pay his brother any notice, ignoring his brother in favour of counting the doors as they walked past. When they reached a sliding silver door at the end of the corridor, Eleio placed his hand against a plate on the wall and the doors slid open to reveal the inside of a shiny silver lift, which the party entered.

A long descent later the doors opened to a huge stable with a dozen pairs of horses, each pair tied to a chariot. Sherlock could see several other pairs of tributes looking around and searched the crowd for the interesting faces he had identified watching the reapings on the train as he was helped into his chariot by Skye, who was carefully arranging his long limbs as Molly was assisted by Eleio. Sure enough, he recognised the small boy from District Eight staring at him with dead-looking dark eyes, a sinister grin on his face, and when Sherlock turned to his right he spotted the tall girl from District One, resplendent in a low-cut short dress that looked to be made entirely out of rubies glittering in the light, and her dark brown hair done up in an elegant twist. As though she could tell she was being watched, she quickly turned towards Sherlock, winked at him and blew a kiss, her scarlet-painted mouth turning up into a mischievous smile.

Sherlock turned away, eager not to give the girl any ideas, and began searching out the boy from District Two. Before Sherlock had found him, however, the stylists had hopped off the chariot and were muttering "don't forget to smile and wave!" as the Panem national anthem began and the massive doors the horses were all facing slid open, revealing an entire panorama of bizarrely made-up faces, each impossible to pick out from the next. Two by two, the horses lined up by the door, ready to parade the tributes in front of the thousands of Capitol citizens. The District One tributes left the stable first, the beautiful girl and a pompous-looking boy with floppy hair waving to the Capitol. Sherlock heard the cheers intensify as the pair entered the limelight, and he saw the girl wink for one of the many cameras as a number of the crowd whistled.

Then it was time for the District Two tributes to leave the stables, their stone grey horses dragging their chariot out onto the street. Sherlock watched eagerly as the boy put his arm around the smaller girl ( _definitely old friends_ , Sherlock thought. _Mycroft was wrong, he's not a killer, he's a kitten_ ), and didn't smile but solemnly saluted the crowd, who applauded the way the two were dressed to look like stone statues.

Next it was the turn of District Three, a tall boy with a face like a weasel's and a short girl with olive skin and thick, dark hair, each dressed in tunics that looked to be made out of fabric woven entirely from copper wire. They waved for the crowd, who applauded them, and the District Four tributes moved into position. Their dark brown horse led the hugely muscular blonde boy and similarly large blonde girl out into the street as they stared straight ahead, not even bothering to acknowledge the audience. The Capitol cheered for the pair, who were made up in green and silver outfits artfully draped in triangles of fabric to represent fish scales.

"Our turn next," Molly said nervously, glancing up at Sherlock. Sherlock responded by giving her a non-committal grunt, and folded his arms, slouching in a bored fashion.

"Sherlock, stand up straight!" Mycroft hissed from the side of the stables. Sherlock ignored his brother and gave a start as his and Molly's handsome chestnut horses began to move, leading the chariot out of the stables and into the light.

Sherlock was aware that Molly was curtseying away next to him, waving for the crowd and giving her best girlish smile for the cameras. Sherlock, however, scowled for the cameras and deepened his slouch, and he was fairly certain he could pinpoint the exact second when the Capitol got past the initial excitement over his and Molly's glowing costumes and noticed his boredom. The applause grew somewhat hesitant as Sherlock lifted his head and raised a disdainful eyebrow. He felt Molly's elbow subtly digging into his ribs, but Sherlock refused point blank to give in and give the Capitol the smile they wanted.

The applause picked up again quickly and Sherlock realised the District Six tributes had emerged. He continued to look bored as the horses took their chariot onwards to the City Circle, every so often hearing a change in the audience's response indicating that a new pair of tributes had been let out.

After what felt to Sherlock like a million years, all twelve chariots had reached the City Circle amid thunderous applause, and pulled up in a semicircle in front of President Snow's mansion. The extremely elderly man with wispy white hair and his customary white rose pinned to his suit emerged onto his balcony and addressed the tributes from above. Continuing his habit of not paying the slightest bit of attention to anything anybody said, Sherlock tuned out the old man and focused instead on his feet. He discovered that by quickly stamping both of his feet in an alternating pattern he could get his green LEDs to flicker on and off, and the thought that at that moment the entire country had their eyes on him blatantly misbehaving greatly amused Sherlock. _Happy, Mycroft_? Sherlock thought mutinously, picturing his brother's scandalised face as his lights went off and on again for the dozenth time. _They'll definitely remember me now..._

Sherlock glanced up to see President Snow had brought his speech to a close and was frowning at him. Sherlock responded with a sarcastic little smile and a cheeky wave, and he heard the sound of the audience tittering as the chariots pulled away, did a final lap of the Circle and went on into the Training Centre.

The minute the doors had shut, Sherlock found himself and Molly dragged from their chariot and surrounded by their prep teams, Molly's gushing about how well she had done and Sherlock's admonishing him. Sherlock noticed most of the other tributes shooting him incredulous glances, and in particular the District One girl was just staring at him, eyes narrowed, her mischievous grin even wider than it had been before. However, the rest of the tributes looked distinctly unimpressed, particularly the frizzy-haired girl from District Ten who was looking at Sherlock as though he were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Unnoticed by Sherlock, however, the boy from District Two was glancing over with interest, doing his best to hide the grin that had formed on his face as his little friend giggled at Sherlock's blatant disregard for the unwritten rule that the tributes behave themselves.

Sherlock was suddenly aware that Mycroft and the stylists had appeared in the room, and were accompanied by Mrs. Hudson this time.

"What the hell are you playing at, Sherlock?" Mycroft demanded, as quietly as he could force his voice to be while still communicating his ire.

"I was bored," Sherlock responded nonchalantly. Molly giggled unwillingly, stopping when she saw the fury on Mycroft's face.

"You could just have cost yourself your life with that stunt, Sherlock," Mycroft said, wringing his hands. "What do you think mother and father are thinking right now?"

"Don't be so hard on the poor boy, Mycroft," Mrs. Hudson interjected. "The Capitol loved his nerve, did you hear them laughing when he gave Snow that wave? You have to admit, his hijinks will have given them something to remember. By the way, Molly dear, you look lovely," she finished, smiling dotingly at Molly. Mycroft frowned.

"We're going to have to do some damage control, Mycroft," Skye said. "You could tell the audience enjoyed his cheekiness, but they did appear to be somewhat ambivalent, particularly at the start."

"Yes, a few things will need ironing out," Mycroft said, eyeing Sherlock, who had returned to stamping his lights on and off. However, before he could continue, Hope and eleven other Capitol citizens had shown up, each making their way to the tributes they were escorting.

"You two look fabulous!" Hope declared, fawning over Molly and wincing as Sherlock's lights continued to flicker on and off. "Come on then, I'll show you to your rooms and then tomorrow you can get started on your training."

"Oh joy," Sherlock said, following Hope and Molly into a lift, leaving Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and the stylists behind as the doors closed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I totally forgot I had put this on AO3 because I've been focusing more on my ff.net account. Sorry! I'm up to nine chapters, so I'll just post the lot here right now. Again, SORRY! I'll be updating past the nine chapters soon, probably very soon seeing as Attention Deficit Creator Disorder has struck less than a week into Camp NaNoWriMo and I am basically writing everything except what I ought to be writing. I'll stop talking now and get on with the fic. :)

In the lift on the way up to the fifth floor of the Training Centre, Hope talked non-stop.

"You two both looked positively fabulous in your chariot just now! Molly, you conducted yourself extremely well, but Sherlock, I'm very disappointed in you. I've just spent the day talking you both up to anybody who would listen in the Capitol in an attempt to get you both sponsors and while I'm sure Molly's girlish charms will have won her favour with the Capitol I don't think your stunt will have best endeared you to them, Sherlock. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"I was bored," Sherlock said monotonously.

"In fact, you'll have made me into a laughing stock, I told everybody you were a polite but determined lad with a decent brain and a determined streak. To have you showing Insolence and impoliteness now..."

"I don't have 'a decent brain,' I'm a genius. Besides which, I was bored," Sherlock repeated firmly, scowling at Hope as Molly shuffled uncomfortably.

"Hope, in fairness, the Capitol seemed to enjoy his cheek. Why on Earth would you tell anybody Sherlock is polite? He has no concept of anything other than what's logical, and certainly not behaving a certain way because social customs dictate what's polite," Molly said shrewdly. Sherlock looked at her curiously, wondering when and how she had developed an understanding of this when the rest of the world just thought he enjoyed being difficult, and Molly shrunk under his gaze, blushing furiously.

"Yes, well..." Hope said, tailing off as the lift doors opened to reveal a short corridor with one door on either side. She breezed out of the lift, Sherlock and Molly following in her wake, and declared "these will be your rooms!" flinging both of the doors open. Sherlock stepped into the room on the left hand side of the corridor and yet again was amazed by the luxury the tributes were treated to before they were sent off to die.

"I'll just leave you both to get settled in," Hope said, disappearing back into the lift. "Training starts at six o'clock sharp tomorrow morning with your mentors. I'll be along to escort you both to breakfast at five, when you can start discussing tactics with Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson." The lift doors closed on Hope and Sherlock and Molly both disappeared into their respective suites.

The first thing Sherlock's eyes were drawn to was a large meal of what looked like chicken with boiled potatoes and green beans with butter, sitting on a table in the middle of the room. Next to the plate was a glass of orange juice and a chocolate dessert, and looking around the room Sherlock also saw a fridge (undoubtedly full of food) next to a worktop with a kettle and a wide selection of hot drinks. Sherlock ignored the meal on the table and made himself a cup of tea with some sugar he found in a cupboard, before opening a door leading off the living room.

Sherlock was immediately confronted by the sight of a large, comfortable looking bed and a giant wardrobe in the corner. "Scrap that," he muttered, turning away from the bed and towards a floor-length glass window with a metal handle on the opposite wall. Sherlock flung the door open and stepped out onto the balcony, inhaling the bracing evening air deeply. He never had been a fan of fresh air but he found the January chill cleared his head, the Capitol altitude reducing the amount of oxygen reaching his brain and therefore slowing it down. It was rather pleasant to be able to think without the perpetual overload.

"There's a party going on," said a quiet voice, and Sherlock looked right to see Molly's small figure sitting by the railings outside her bedroom door, gazing out over the bright lights and loud noises of the Capitol. She was still dressed in her silver jumpsuit but she had taken her LEDs off, unlike Sherlock, whose lights were still flickering on and off every few steps.

"Obviously," Sherlock murmured. "The entertainment of the year has started, and the children who are providing it mean nothing to them. Of course they're partying."

Molly exhaled, her breath forming a cloud of vapour in front of her. "Horrible, isn't it?"

"It certainly demonstrates the depravity of the human state. Personally, I've never had much time for humans," Sherlock responded, leaning on the edge of the balcony and surveying a distant firework display that had just started.

"Don't you ever get lonely?" Molly blurted out suddenly, clapping a hand to her mouth when Sherlock turned to glare at her and she realised what she had said.

"No," Sherlock said coldly and decisively, turning around so he had his back to Molly.

"Okay," she replied weakly, looking back over the Capitol. Eager to change the subject, she stood up, peering down over the edge of the balcony. "Sherlock, what do you think would happen if one were to ruin the games by falling from a balcony before they even started? Would they be able to?"

Sherlock's head snapped towards Molly, a curious expression on his face, and said "no idea. Let's find out!" Molly opened her mouth, as if to protest, but Sherlock only disappeared back into his room and emerged ten seconds later with his plate of food. He curled his fist around a new potato and flung it as hard as he could in the direction of the fireworks in the distance. About six feet away from the balcony, it burst into flames and fell as sparking ashes to the ground.

"Fascinating," Sherlock said under his breath. "Would you like a go, Molly?"

"Sherlock, that's your food, I really think you ought to be eating that..." Molly said doubtfully.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Besides which, if you don't throw it, I will." He picked up a chicken leg in between his thumb and index finger and offered it to Molly. Molly took it reluctantly and dropped it over the balcony. There was a faint 'ping' and after a couple of seconds it bounced right back onto the balcony.

"Ohhh! That's interesting," Sherlock exclaimed, clapping his hands together in fervent excitement. "The field fries potatoes but not chicken. Presumably it's some sort of scare tactic then, they know people are going to get ideas, throw objects over the side, watch them burn and then think 'actually, I'd rather take my chances in the arena.' It's another subtle way for the Capitol to wield their power over tributes. Of course, there would be a few who wouldn't be put off by the fried objects, so the field is clever enough to bounce flesh right back up to their balcony. That's why the chicken wasn't frazzled. It's really very clever! Of course, the experiment would need to be repeated to ensure reliability... would you do the honours, Molly?" he asked, grinning and holding out his plate to Molly, who smiled.

"Mycroft's not going to be very pleased with you if you don't eat this, Sherlock..." Molly teased.

"Stuff Mycroft, I don't need to eat," Sherlock said petulantly.

"Well, if you're sure," Molly said, taking a handful of beans and hurling them towards the field. Like the potato, they ignited in a cluster of sparks and the ash floated back towards the ground.

Once Sherlock's plate was empty and the balcony was strewn with pieces of shredded chicken, Sherlock bid Molly good night and retreated back into his room. He wasn't tired, but there was nothing interesting to do so Sherlock ripped off his LEDs, flopped down on his sofa in his jumpsuit and fell asleep.

Six hours later Sherlock was awoken to Hope towering over him, wittering something about breakfast. Sherlock ignored Hope, walked over into his bedroom and pointedly shut the door in the woman's face.

"All right, Sherlock, just walk through the lift and on the other side there's a dining room. We'll all be there waiting for you but hurry up, we've got a lot to discuss. The lift won't move without me there, though, so don't try to run away!"

Sherlock didn't respond, instead throwing his wardrobe open and selecting a pair of trousers and a deep purple shirt. He changed in a hurry, aware of how Mycroft would respond if he were late, and as he walked out of his suite he was greeted by Hope and Molly emerging from Molly's door.

"Morning, Sherlock," Molly yawned. "I bet you're hungry after what you did to your meal last night."

Hope raised an eyebrow but said nothing, ushering Sherlock and Molly through the lift and into the dining room on the other side she had mentioned. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson were already sitting at a table.

"What's this I hear about flying chickens, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked disapprovingly. Sherlock gave his brother a grin wide enough to show all of his teeth, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I did hear about how the Capitol have been test-flying the aeroplanes District Six sent over," Sherlock quipped, noting Hope's scandalised expression.

"Well really!" she said indignantly, recognising the jibe and leaving the group to sit at her own table.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's enough, Sherlock. Hope is being very helpful and if you say things like that in front of the cameras later on you'll certainly get no sponsors. We're going to be doing quite a bit of work on your image before your interview with Caesar Flickerman but for the moment we need to be thinking about your physical training."

"That's right, dearies," Mrs. Hudson piped up, putting down her bread roll. "So, we're going to start coaching you today, alongside the training you will both receive with the other tributes."

"Is this absolutely necessary?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrow raised. "I thought we had already established that we are both going to die."

Molly emitted a shocked gasp and Mrs. Hudson patted Molly on the shoulder. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Are you giving up, Sherlock? Don't make me have to be the one to tell mummy you jumped off a balcony before the Games began just because you were too determined to end your life on your own terms," he gently scolded, his eyes boring into Sherlock's. Sherlock widened his, hoping that his features were arranged in something resembling an innocent expression: apparently Mycroft had worked out the business with the chicken.

Sherlock didn't respond, knowing full well Mycroft would use anything he said against him. Indeed, soon enough Mycroft was talking again. "Now, the first thing we need to establish is whether your training with us will be together or individually."

"Ooh, I really don't mind, do you, Sherlock?" Molly said, going pink around the ears. Sherlock noticed Mycroft looking expectantly at him, and knew that if he didn't give the right response now he would never hear the last of it.

"I think separate would be more prudent," Sherlock said, watching Mycroft for any sign of the irritating smugness that would no doubt arise should he say the wrong thing. "We don't want to form an alliance in the arena because if by some miracle we both made it to the final two we would have to fight each other using the same tactics, knowing each other's strengths and weaknesses, and that would be dull for the Capitol." During his monologue, Sherlock had noted Mycroft's eyes growing wider and his head inclining down into a nod, but at the end Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Close, but you fail at the final hurdle. We wouldn't want you or Molly to have to kill each other, after all, you're old friends."

"I don't have _friends_ ," Sherlock spat, glaring at his brother. Silence descended on the table as Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson looked worriedly at Sherlock.

Molly was the one to break the silence. "You'd kill me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned. "I would have reservations," he conceded. The distinct lack of a 'yes' or a 'no' rang out loudly.

"Okay," Molly said meekly, turning to Mycroft. "It's probably best if we train individually, then."

"You can train with me first then, Molly dear," Mrs. Hudson said kindly. "I think Sherlock needs some extra time with his brother." She stood up and indicated, breakfast tray in hand, for Molly to follow her.

"If you leave me alone with Mycroft..." Sherlock began, a dangerous glint in his eye.

"You'll do what, throw your breakfast off a balcony and starve?" Mycroft asked, bored.

Sherlock seethed silently as Molly and Mrs. Hudson left the room, leaving him alone with Mycroft. And Hope, he supposed, if the woman sitting pointedly across the room from them counted.

"Right," Mycroft began, a businesslike tone creeping into his voice. "What's your plan?"

"You mean be slaughtered immediately by a bloodthirsty Goliath from District Four with a mace?" Sherlock intoned, staring up at the ceiling and attempting to discern as quickly as possible whether the number of tiles was divisible by four. Sherlock felt Mycroft's hand pressing on the top of his head, forcing his gaze down onto his brother's face. "Fine. assuming I am not immediately killed and somehow manage to escape the initial bloodbath, logic dictates that I form an alliance with somebody useful, find a good hiding place and keep out of everybody's way until they've all done away with each other, sending my ally out for food in the hopes that he'll eventually be killed when hardly anybody remains."

"Good," Mycroft said. "Although, I wouldn't recommend you find an ally. You remember what I said, you don't want to be in a position where you have to kill them later on. Whatever you say, I know you form attachments more easily than you claim to."

Sherlock scowled. "Wouldn't it be better to manipulate somebody into doing your bidding, to save your own resources?"

"Got anyone in mind?" Mycroft asked sardonically.

Sherlock remembered the boy from District Two, who had been so upset when his friend was reaped and yet came across as so brave for the opening ceremony. Quickly deciding not to mention him to Mycroft, on the grounds that the boy was District Two and therefore likely a Career tribute, Sherlock just shrugged.

"No."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes again and Sherlock felt as though his brother were scrutinising his very mind. "If you're sure," Mycroft eventually said, quietly.

"Quite," Sherlock promptly responded, mentally screaming at Mycroft.

"Very well, then," Mycroft responded. "I know you're clever enough to work out the best tactics for training in the gym yourself..."

"Learn survival skills, not just playing with weapons, not showing my hand before I have to, not fraternising with the other tributes," Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes," Mycroft said, patiently. "And I know you're not completely useless at sparring, so I shall use this time with you working on a completely different, but equally important skill which will come in useful before and during the Games."

"If you're talking about taking the other tributes down a peg or two, I've got that sorted," Sherlock said. "May I leave now?"

Mycroft exhaled exasperatedly. "It was your image to which I was referring." Sherlock froze. "If you want to last longer than the bloodbath you will need to learn how to be charming."

"So, what you're saying is that you're going to turn me into a different person to appeal to the freaks?" Sherlock asked warily.

"Not quite," Mycroft replied, setting aside his largely ignored breakfast and leaning forwards. "We want you to be yourself."

"How does that work, then?" Sherlock asked, leaning back in his chair away from Mycroft. "You're the one who's always going on at me for being rude and childish."

"I've been speaking to Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft responded promptly. "We have decided that your childishness could be seen as charming and that you simply have no concept of the boundary between honesty and rudeness. So, we're going to teach you how to be a bit less honest to make you come across as more likeable."

"Whatever," Sherlock said, attempting to give the impression of not being bothered when in reality he was starting to realise that Mycroft might just be right after all.


	5. Chapter 5

Three hours later Sherlock found himself herded into an awaiting lift by Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and Molly already in the glass box, after having changed into the navy t-shirt and trousers Mycroft had insisted he wear. The group descended in silence to a large room on the opposite side of the tower from the stables they had entered through last night, where several tributes were already waiting. Around the room, Sherlock saw a number of different stations, each offering a different activity and with a different Capitol citizen ready to teach them.

"... and try not to get into any fights before the Games start, Sherlock, it's against the rules and you're bound to be punished for it," Mycroft said, ending the lecture Sherlock had been ignoring for the lift ride down. When the doors opened, Sherlock and Molly were ushered out and the lift doors closed on their mentors, taking them back up to the fifth floor.

Sherlock scanned the present tributes, looking for information. The weasel-faced male from Three and the dark-skinned girl from Ten were obviously making eyes at each other. That was a joke, they'd be killing each other in a week's time. The floppy-haired boy from One was glaring at Sherlock, a look of absolute malice on his face. The girl from Eight was chatting to the beautiful girl from One, who appeared to be only half-focused on her new friend. Her attention instead appeared to be largely directed towards Sherlock, for she was regarding him with a look of deep interest as she nodded absently to the girl from Eight. Sherlock responded by giving her a brief nod, and just before he turned away he caught sight of the wide, playful grin she apparently wore so frequently.

"I assume we're just supposed to make our own way around the room?" Molly muttered anxiously to Sherlock, bringing him out of his concentration.

Sherlock looked around the room and spotted a ginger girl from District Nine sinking knives into the chest of a dummy over in a corner, and the young-looking girl from District Twelve had apparently joined the pair from District Two at a pit near the centre of the room, where they were being shown how to light a fire with various implements.

"I assume so," Sherlock said, turning towards a stand with a large number of long threads hanging from the table and leaving Molly alone.

As Sherlock approached, a man with an open face greeted him. "Ah, would you like to learn how to make a rope? It's a very useful skill, and it has saved many lives before in the arena..."

Surveying the man and judging the materials, Sherlock decided. "It makes sense to arm oneself with as much knowledge as possible."

"Indeed it does, boy, indeed it does," the man said, eagerly. Looking around the room, he leaned towards Sherlock and whispered conspiratorially. "You'd be surprised how many people neglect basic survival skills in favour of learning how to use weapons. An elementary mistake," he said, sighing. Indeed, Sherlock looked around the room and spotted that the vast majority of the other tributes had headed straight for the spears, knives, bows and arrows and an assortment of other vicious-looking instruments. The only tributes who weren't currently holding a weapon were Sherlock himself, the small party around the firepit, the boy from Four who was using a sheet and some sticks to build some structure and the girl from District One who was furiously sparring with an instructor, her hair dancing around her face as she gracefully spun around him, dealing blow after blow and dodging his own attacks. Sherlock watched for a second before fixing his eyes back on the threads on the table in front of him.

"They're all idiots," Sherlock muttered, scowling.

"Idiots they may be, boy, but they're more than well-equipped to kill you," the man responded, handing Sherlock a fistful of thread. "See that boy over there?" he said, indicating towards the small boy from eight, who was fumbling with a bow and arrow, continuously missing the targets. "That's the tactic they all use."

"You mean they pretend to be terrible so nobody will single them out as a threat so they end up flying under the radar and don't end up killed," Sherlock said quickly. The man chuckled.

"I like you, kid. You're clever. I think your tactics will prove interesting," he said. "Now, if you'll separate the thread into three and twist the sections individually..."

Two hours later, Sherlock had made his way around three of the stations and had received a good grounding in making rope, starting a fire and learning how to spot poisonous berries. He decided to move on weapons and walked over to the bow and arrow set the small boy from District Eight had finally set down, after having spent ages failing to sink a good arrow into a dummy. Sherlock grasped the bow as instructed, his three fingers holding the string taut under the arrow as he was shown. Sherlock felt a light tap on his shoulder and jumped, his fingers relinquishing their grasp on the string and sending the bow speeding forwards, straight into the wall six feet away from the dummy he had been aiming at.

"What was that for?" Sherlock demanded, spinning around and finding himself face to face with the girl from District One, her eyes wide and her head turned up to face Sherlock, who was a good several inches taller than her.

"That wasn't a particularly good shot, was it, Mr. Holmes?" she teased, a smirk appearing around her mouth. "I'm Irene Adler," she announced, offering her hand to Sherlock, who ignored it. For some reason, this girl just made Sherlock feel incredibly uncomfortable. "I noticed you watching me sparring earlier."

"That was observant of you," Sherlock said coldly, staring at her unsmiling. Irene withdrew her proffered hand. "I know you intend to kill me, Miss Adler, so let's skip the pleasantries."

Irene's mischievous expression faltered and she pouted, her bottom lip protruding. "You don't want to play, Mr. Holmes? Dear me, I'm disappointed, you looked so promising up on your chariot last night." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and Irene's grin returned. "I'm not worried, Sherlock. I'll have you playing soon enough. A Game this intricate, how could you resist?" she smiled at Sherlock, who continued to frown at her. As she walked away from him, Sherlock's expression turned to one of fascination. Despite the fact that something about Irene Adler had made him uneasy, this girl could indeed be an interesting opponent in the arena. People who didn't offer a challenge were dull, after all, and Sherlock already suspected that Irene would turn out to be anything but dull.

Sherlock returned to his bow and arrow, failing to hit the target once even without receiving interruptions. Evidently his failure had not gone unnoticed, for after about fifteen minutes Sherlock's concentration was broken by a harsh laugh.

"You're terrible at that, aren't you, Two?" Sherlock spun on his heel, his bow lowered, and saw a round-faced boy from District Six jeering at the short blonde boy from District Two, who was gazing sadly at a spear that was embedded into the floor at a thirty-six degree angle a couple of yards away from him. "Why don't you just team up with that skinny sod from Five who couldn't shoot an elephant's backside from a metre away?"

A large number of the other tributes laughed at this comment, but the small girl from Twelve who had been with the tributes from Two turned towards the bully and said "cut it out, Stamford," as firmly as she could. As he rounded on her, the blonde boy from Two looked at Sherlock, nodded once in acknowledgement and returned to throwing spears with the girl from his district.

Sherlock put down the bow and moved on to a selection of large leather balls with spikes on them, one of which was already being thrown by the giant boy from Four as the small boy from Eight who had also had such trouble with the bow and arrow looked on. Four regarded Sherlock with amusement as the latter seized a ball, and the smaller boy turned his dead-looking eyes on Sherlock.

"Let's see you try then, Sherlock," he drawled, the softness of his sing-song voice surprising Sherlock who had expected something as dead and monotonous as his eyes.

"I see you've all been doing your homework," Sherlock replied shortly, noting that everybody seemed to know his name. He tightened his grip on the ball's handle.

"Just because you don't take the time to learn names, you shouldn't assume we're all as rude as you are," the boy said, as though he had been reading Sherlock's mind. He started to move his head, tilting it first left, then right, in a reptilian fashion.

"Who are you, then, seeing as you're obviously so eager to tell me?" Sherlock asked, forcing boredom into his voice. It wouldn't do to let this adversary know that he was actually intrigued by him.

Four laughed and Eight grinned at Sherlock, his eyes appearing to darken even more so they just looked like bottomless pits. "Oh, I don't think you need to know that," he said. "You really ought to have been paying more attention to the Reaping coverage. Now, are you going to throw that ball or are Seb and I just going to have to find something more interesting to watch?"

Sherlock didn't justify this with an answer, but found himself spinning the ball around his head before letting it go, unable to stop himself from rising to the reptilian boy's bait. To his surprise, the ball flew a good twenty yards in the direction he had intended, and he turned back to the two with a smug smile.

"Good," the smaller boy conceded. "Of course, you're nowhere near as good as Seb, but you didn't completely bore me. Congratulations." Despite Sherlock's prowess with psychology and body language, he found it difficult to tell whether the boy was being sarcastic or if he genuinely was as odd as he was coming across. However, before Sherlock had worked it out, the two boys left, the smaller one talking non-stop to the one he had called "Seb." _Eight is the ringleader, then,_ Sherlock realised, making a mental note to keep an eye on him.

After a full day of training, Sherlock was joined at the bottom of the lift by Molly.

"What did you make of that, then? Obviously aside from being embarrassed by that boy from Six..." Molly said, her initially bright tone dulling as she ended her sentence. However, before Sherlock could answer the lift doors pinged open, revealing Hope with her usual orange ringlets.

"It's time for your evening meal, I'm sure you're both exhausted by your workout today," she said, positioning herself more towards Molly as if to show that she hadn't forgotten Sherlock's quip earlier.

Sherlock scowled as the doors closed on them. "I'm not hungry."

"That's the thing, darling, you never are," Hope said, not quite delicately. "Your brother is particularly eager to fix that, he's been going on about how you need to put on some weight before the Games."

"Stuff Mycroft," Sherlock retorted angrily. "Digestion slows me down."

"Yes, and so does low blood-sugar, Sherlock," Molly piped up. "I'm not a doctor, but we studied this in biology. Yes, not having a full stomach does speed up one's thought processes-"

"Thank you," Sherlock said loudly, as if to close the conversation.

"-And you may look good as you are, but you're not going to survive if you enter the arena stick-thin," Molly continued. "Please, Sherlock, give yourself a chance. You could win this if you didn't write yourself off so easily, you're amazing..."

However, before she could finish the lift came to a standstill and the doors opened, revealing the corridor that would take them through to the dining room.

Upon arriving at the end of the corridor, the three were greeted by Mycroft.

"Mrs. Hudson and I were watching some of the CCTV footage of your training, both of you," he said, leading them to a table and sitting them down next to each other opposite him, while Hope once again went off to her own table. "She's in her room right now formulating strategies based on what you both did today and the tactics you've both outlined with us."

"Is she not eating with us?" Molly asked, looking disappointed.

"She has already eaten. You'll see her at some point this evening," Mycroft said. "We're going to discuss your physical training before you both go to bed." As Mycroft finished talking, a waiter emerged from the kitchens with three bowls of onion soup. Sherlock eyed his with distaste. "For goodness' sake, Sherlock, eat your food!" Mycroft demanded.

Sherlock gave him a stubborn look. "Why should I?"

"Because," Mycroft said patiently, "you need to put on some weight before the Games."

"I've heard this argument a quadrillion times!" Sherlock seethed. "Weight doesn't matter, it's strength which counts. I'm muscular enough, thanks to those silly fencing lessons father put me through." Molly's eyes widened and Sherlock regretted giving away quite so much information, which Mycroft apparently picked up on.

"Please, Sherlock. For Mummy?" Mycroft persisted, grinning at the conflicted expression making its way across Sherlock's face.

After a few seconds of teeth-clenching, Sherlock reluctantly replied "fine," and took a couple of spoonfuls of the soup.

"Good," Mycroft said, smiling forcedly at the tributes, and taking a spoonful of his own soup. "Molly, have you tried some of the bread? It's absolutely marvellous."

At the end of the meal, after the final plates had been cleared away Mycroft stood up and announced that he was going to fetch Mrs. Hudson, leaving Sherlock and Molly sat at the table.

"What do you suppose they're going to go through with us now?" Molly asked.

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Weren't you listening, Molly?" he asked impatiently. "They're going to separate us and go over the best physical training tactics. It's another excuse for Mycroft to tell me off," he said, bitterly, as their mentors entered the room.

"Sherlock, you're with Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft said, standing in the door as the elderly lady made her way over to the table. "Molly, would you come with me?"

As Molly stood up, Sherlock murmured "rather you than me," and Mrs. Hudson sat down in her newly vacated seat as Molly plodded over to Mycroft. Once the pair had left the room, Sherlock looked up into Mrs. Hudson's face and saw her eyes crinkled into a friendly smile.

"You did well today, Sherlock," she said. "Mycroft was very pleased." This statement surprised Sherlock, who has been expecting a reprimand for something or other. What he certainly hadn't been expecting was any form of praise from his brother, even if it was merely second-hand. "It was good of you to not reveal your hand too early."

"Obviously," Sherlock intoned. "Did you see that boy from Four, showing off his throw? How does he expect to get anywhere with the rest of us knowing what he's good at?"

"Don't become complacent, dear, he could still surprise you," Mrs. Hudson warned. Sherlock highly doubted this, after all, humans as a rule were predictable, but he said nothing. "Mycroft tells me you're rather good with long blades," Mrs. Hudson continued.

"I have had fencing lessons for the last ten years," Sherlock confirmed.

"Excellent. Save that for when you're going for your rating," Mrs. Hudson said, referring to the ranking of the tributes in which they would later be given a number indicating how likely they would be to win. "Do you have any other particular skills?"

"I once mutilated a dead pig with a spear on work experience at the butcher's," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "I never was invited back."

"Oh dear, Sherlock, what are we going to do with you?" Mrs. Hudson asked, laughing cheerfully as she gave him a friendly smack on the arm.

Sherlock looked back up at Mrs. Hudson. "I also have a considerable penchant for the violin," he quipped. "I highly doubt that will be terribly useful in the arena, however."

Mrs. Hudson laughed again. "I think you may be right, there, dear. Well, you can save your skills with a sword for later, but right now I'd consider thinking about the spears."

"My thoughts precisely," Sherlock concurred, deciding not to mention how the mess he had made of the pig may not be practical in the arena.

Mrs. Hudson frowned thoughtfully. "It might also be an idea for you to get a good grounding in fishing, building shelters, climbing and making traps. I have been working for your brother for the last few years and I was his mentor before that, and I've heard enough to know that you have the intelligence necessary for adapting, so it would be in your best interest to learn all the techniques so you can choose which to apply depending on what the arena's like. You're lucky, the sorry pair we had last year couldn't wrap their heads around more than one method of hunting. The one that survived the bloodbath went on to starve because he had only received training in how to use a fishing line and had no idea how to catch a deer."

"Well, maybe he'd have been better off tying the line between two trees and finding some way to run a current through it," Sherlock pointed out. 

Mrs. Hudson smiled indulgently at Sherlock. "That's exactly what I meant," she said. "You're smart enough to think of that. You'll have no problems at all there. You just need to know the practical techniques.

"I think that's about all I need to discuss with you right now," Mrs. Hudson concluded. "You're free to go back to your room now, you'll want to get plenty of sleep-" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "-because tomorrow is going to be even busier than today. You've got your training, but your stylist is also going to measure you properly for your interview outfit so she can make it over the next few days."

Sherlock groaned. "Is she going to add baubles and tinsel this time? What about a star on the top?"

Mrs. Hudson gently tutted. "Sherlock, dear, be nice. Now, off to your room with you. Miss Jefferson will be in to get you up tomorrow morning."

Sherlock took his leave and headed for his room, grateful that he wouldn't have to deal with Mycroft again this evening. He changed into a set of blue pyjamas that had been left on his bed, found a book about bees and curled up in a leather chair, reading for a good while before sleep caught up with Sherlock and he settled down to snooze for a couple of hours.


	6. Chapter 6

After having been abruptly woken by Hope the next morning, been bullied by Mycroft into eating a couple of slices of toast, some scrambled eggs and a bowl of Cornflakes, Sherlock once again found himself entering the training room with Molly. The pair were greeted by the sight of the pale boy from District Eight, who was grinning maniacally at Sherlock. Sherlock shot him a brief questioning look, before turning away and seeing that Molly was smiling back at the boy anxiously. 

"Don't even think about it, Molly, he'll be after you with a knife next week," Sherlock said under his breath. Molly turned a bright crimson, and Sherlock simply walked away from her towards the rack of spears by the wall.

Sherlock glanced at the brutal-looking woman with cropped hair and a selection of formidable-looking tattoos standing nearby before selecting a spear and picking it up in his right hand. The woman observed his grip, nodding her approval, and Sherlock threw the spear like a javelin towards a dummy near the corner of the room, putting all his might into the throw. The spear glanced off the dummy's torso, leaving a long scratch in the plastic, but Sherlock marched over after the spear, picked it up off the ground and plunged it into the plastic abdomen. The spear went straight through the plastic, emerging from its back, and sent the impaled dummy toppling over backwards. It landed on the floor where Sherlock proceeded to pull out the spear and repeatedly stab it in the chest, experimenting with different stabbing techniques.

"I think he's dead now," said a quiet, reasonable-sounding voice, and Sherlock turned around to see the blonde boy from Two, the latter's mouth turned up into a smile. Sherlock said nothing but nodded once, withdrawing the spear from the dummy's comprehensively punctured torso. The other boy gave a small laugh, before returning to the table of various fruits he must have been working at. 

After Sherlock had turned half a dozen dummies into speckled ruins and carved a couple of wooden tables into planks with a large dagger, much to the displeasure of several supervising Capitolites, Sherlock moved on to a table he hadn't destroyed and began learning how to sharpen slate into a rudimentary knife.

After an eventful training day involving plenty of intimidation, Irene Adler hovering and a weedy-looking girl from District Eleven bursting into tears, Sherlock and Molly were once again escorted back up to the fifth floor by Hope, where they met Skye and Eleio waiting for them in the dining room.

"We're just going to take your measurements quickly before you eat, darlings," Skye said, ushering Sherlock out of the dining room and towards his suite. Once she had Sherlock in his dressing room, Skye ordered Sherlock to strip to his underwear and took out a tape measure.

"What have you got planned this time, am I to look like a pylon?" Sherlock remarked.

Skye frowned as she measured from Sherlock's shoulder to his wrist. "No, honey, not quite," she said, jotting down a number. "After your little display the other day I considered sending you up naked, after all, I reasoned that if you weren't wearing anything you couldn't cause such trouble. However, you shan't be doing that, I had a brilliant idea, Eleio jumped on it for Molly and he was adamant that you both match, to a degree. I quite agreed." Skye began measuring Sherlock's individual fingers.

"Is it really necessary to know the lengths of my fingers?" Sherlock demanded, tensing his hand as the measure grazed the ticklish area between his index and middle fingers, where they joined the palm.

"I think you'd rather I got it exactly right," Skye replied, a grin spreading across her face.

"What are you going to do to me?" Sherlock asked warily.

Skye's grin widened, revealing a small blue gem set into one of her incisors. "Put it this way, the response will be electric," she said excitedly, looking up from her tape measure at Sherlock.

A few minutes later, after Skye had taken every conceivable measurement she could, she folded up her tape measure and smiled at Sherlock. "Now, I'm going to leave a centimetre for you to put on some weight..."

"Don't bother," Sherlock retorted quickly.

"Mycroft assures me you will be putting on weight. He sounded pretty certain," Skye said doubtfully. "I'd do as he says, I'm not changing my mind and you really won't want your outfit to be loose," she continued, her eyes flashing. "I've been playing with materials and the one I'm using has no give at all, so I have to include the possibility of weight gain in my initial measurements. That's all."

Sherlock mentally went through all the flexible materials he could think of, but couldn't think of any that fit Skye's description. Despite dreading whatever absurd outfit Skye had designed for him, Sherlock had to admit that he was excited to see this material that had such unusual properties. Then again, he thought, it was entirely possible she had made him an outfit out of tin foil. Sherlock pushed this thought out of his head, he couldn't stand the sound tin foil made when it rustled and didn't even like imagining it.

Skye collated her measurements and led Sherlock back down the corridor, letting him walk through the lift to the dining room before she rode the lift back down to the ground floor, no doubt to immediately start working on her creation.

Sherlock continued on to the dining room and saw Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson already sitting at a table. Molly evidently hadn't emerged from her suite.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, getting up and approaching Sherlock, arms outstretched. She gave him a hug, and although Sherlock usually abhorred physical contact with other people, he found that he didn't mind the kindly old lady invading his personal space too much. Even so, Sherlock quickly extricated himself from Mrs. Hudson and sat down, eyeing Mycroft with suspicion.

Mycroft raised his head and surveyed Sherlock intently. "Was it really necessary to destroy so many objects earlier? The Capitol aren't best pleased with you right now."

"Oh, leave the boy alone, Mycroft," Mrs. Hudson chided. "You yourself were complimenting his technique before he arrived." Sherlock adopted a hugely smug expression and smirked at Mycroft, as Molly appeared in the doorway and plodded over. She sat down, and the usual waiters arrived with bowls of soup.

After the group had finished their meals Mycroft turned a large television on and the four watched a programme being broadcast about all of the tributes. Eager to get as much information as possible, the Capitol had apparently sent officials around to each district in order to show their houses and interview their families. Mycroft had apparently timed their meal perfectly, for Sherlock only had to sit through a minute of District Four's coverage (a huge man called Mr. Moran going on about how his son couldn't possibly lose) before the Panem national anthem played and shots of the familiar District Five main square were being panned around.

"They usually cover the females' families first, but in this case I think they'll go for Sherlock first," Mycroft said. Sure enough, the Holmes manor flashed up on the screen, and Sherlock's parents appeared, sitting in the living room.

"Sooo," a female voice off-camera began, letting the pitch raise and fall. A caption of 'Mr. Holmes (Mayor) and wife Mrs. Holmes' appeared across the bottom of the screen. "The tribute everybody's been dying to hear about, and probably the joint-most interesting tribute to be selected to go into the arena. Why don't you tell us about your son?"

Mr. Holmes gave a nervous laugh. "Which one?" he asked.

The woman off-screen gave an airy laugh, and Sherlock noticed his mother sink slightly into the sofa. "Sherlock, of course! Do you think his victor brother we heard so much about four years ago is taking good care of him?" Sherlock glared at Mycroft.

Mrs. Holmes gave a sniff. "I do not doubt that he is," she said, glaring at somebody behind the camera as though they personally were responsible for all that was wrong with the world.

"Indeed, we already know that Mycroft is a strong boy, he proved as such in the ninety-sixth Games," the woman's voice said eagerly. "How do you feel about Sherlock's chances? Do you think you will be the first family ever to provide two sibling victors?"

"I sincerely hope so," Mr. Holmes said wearily.

"Of course you do!" the woman responded happily. "Of course, rumour has it Sherlock is shaping up to be every bit as interesting as his little stunt the other night would indicate! Tell us," she said, her voice sounding more and more excited. "Has he always been such a naughty boy?"

The Holmses winced slightly, and Sherlock noticed Mycroft wincing too. "He has always been... a _spirited_ character," Mr. Holmes said.

"We've never been bored," Mrs. Holmes added, smiling sadly.

"Great! Watch out, Panem, I think these Games are going to be the best we've had for a while!" the woman chattered gleefully, and Sherlock noticed his parents' false smiles slipping. Mercifully, the interview ended then and the cameras were taken on a tour of the Holmes manor. Sherlock noticed Mycroft watching him carefully.

After the tour had finished, a picture of a small but clean house appeared on the screen and Sherlock saw that Molly was watching attentively, tears glistening in her eyes. _This is most likely the last time either of us are going to see our homes_ , Sherlock thought, and although he forced himself to remain apathetic for himself Sherlock found it difficult to watch Molly's response. She was sniffling as a male voice, just as excited as the female interviewing Sherlock's parents had sounded, asked her parents about a particular clay model on the small mantelpiece, a small child with dark hair dressed in navy. Sherlock listened attentively as Mr. and Mrs. Hooper explained that Molly had made it in her first year at school. Anything to block out the sounds of Molly sniffling.

"Brilliant! Is it anybody in particular?" the voice asked excitedly.

Mrs. Hooper blew her nose. "Molly never said," she sniffed.

"Aww! It's all right, don't cry!" the man exclaimed. "Be excited, it's an honour for your daughter to be chosen!" At this, both of the Hoopers, along with their daughter, burst into tears. The camera swiftly swivelled sideways, so it was facing a wall, and Sherlock could have sworn he heard the voice asking "did I say something wrong?" before the camera went off. For a couple of seconds there was nothing, a black screen, before the Panem national anthem played and a camera panned around an unfamiliar square. Apparently they had cut District Five's airtime especially.

Molly ran from the room, heading for her suite. Mrs. Hudson looked at Mycroft, who nodded at her, before she got up unsteadily, grasping her hip, and followed Molly.

"Does it not bother you that that could well have been the last time you ever see our parents?" Mycroft asked monotonously.

Sherlock glared back at Mycroft mutinously. "Will caring keep me alive?"

Mycroft sighed. "No," he conceded.

"Then I'll continue not caring," Sherlock said decisively, ignoring the dark look on Mycroft's visage.

"I'm sure that would greatly please Mummy," Mycroft said, watching as Sherlock stood up and stormed out towards his suite.

Sherlock flopped into his leather chair and read the book on bees he had found the night before, unaware of how much time was passing. Once he had finished the book, Sherlock got up and walked into his bedroom, seeing that there was a considerable amount of snow falling outside. He threw open the French window and stepped out onto the balcony, uncaring that he was considerably colder than ideal in the t-shirt and trousers he had been wearing for training.

"You okay?" said a small voice, and Sherlock realised that Molly was also on the balcony. Mrs. Hudson must have left.

"Of course I am," Sherlock replied tersely. "Why would I not be?"

Molly gave him a hard look. "You look sad," she said, firmly.

"I can assure you I am unaffected," Sherlock said, his voice icier than the icicles hanging from the balcony above.

"Of course," Molly said sadly. "Well, good night then." She disappeared back into her suite, leaving Sherlock alone in the snow.

The next morning, Sherlock was up even before Hope turned up. He climbed off the sofa and decided to take a shower, on the grounds that if he couldn't hear Hope shouting he wouldn't have to see Mycroft for so long. He meticulously washed his hair, taking thrice the time it would normally take, and by the time he was out there were only ten minutes left before the end of breakfast. Perfect.

Sherlock got dressed and changed into his navy outfit, before sauntering at a leisurely pace down the corridor towards the dining room. Once there he was greeted by an irate Mycroft.

"I took the liberty of preparing your breakfast, Sherlock," Mycroft announced, waving a plate with some particularly greasy looking fried bread and eggs on it. "If you aren't going to consent to spend so much time eating, you can make up the energy by eating these."

Sherlock scowled but broke off a piece of the bread, putting it into his mouth. To his great surprise he found that he actually rather liked it, so he seized the plate from Mycroft and gobbled the bread, returning to the buffet for seconds before it could be taken away.

Mycroft was astonished. "Well, if it works," he said to Mrs. Hudson, shrugging resignedly.

During training that day Sherlock observed that the tributes were watching each other in different ways from how they had done before. For example, everybody regarded Molly with either mirth or pity, the timid, big-eared boy from Ten was receiving jibes from the more unkind tributes and the boy and girl from District Two were being treated as outcasts. It seemed that only the small girl from Twelve wanted to go anywhere near the latter two.

Sherlock took the changes in the group dynamics to mean that everybody except him and Molly had watched the entire programme that was on last night. Sherlock wondered why everybody was avoiding the pair from Two, they seemed harmless enough. Then again, so had Mycroft when he was in the Games. His tactic had been to come across as an unrelateable scholar, so he would be avoided, and then to take out the other tributes subtly. Poisonous berry juice-tipped darts, tricking the others into the same gathering to slaughter each other while he hid, stealing supplies while the others slept.

Then again, somebody who could smile so easily despite the fact that he obviously cared for the small girl with him implied an extremely easygoing nature and that he would be statistically unlikely to be a brutal killer.

Sherlock decided to puzzle over the other tributes while he trained, heading over to a table with an assortment of rope and sharp objects.

After a long, tedious day of learning how to build traps and improvise a fishing rod, Sherlock and Molly were once again escorted back to the fifth floor and Sherlock found that he was starting to acclimatise to this new routine.


	7. Chapter 7

Four days of intimidation, doing his best to avoid Irene Adler (who apparently had other ideas) and eating fried bread later, Sherlock was awoken to a different announcement from usual from Hope Jefferson.

"Wakey wakey!" she declared. "You'll be demonstrating your skills to the Gamemakers today!" Of course, this was the day when all the tributes would be given a number ranging from one to twelve, depending on how likely the gamemakers thought they would be to win the Hunger Games. Nobody had ever received a twelve, and on the other end of the spectrum nobody had ever received a one. The majority of tributes usually scored in the region of four to seven, with the Career tributes tending to score between eight and ten. Of course, because the careers couldn't volunteer this year, Sherlock expected most scores to be below seven.

Hope left the room and Sherlock dressed in his navy t-shirt and trousers before leaving his suite and heading for the dining room.

After having spent half an hour watching Mycroft waffling on about what not to do in front of the Gamemakers and looking smug about the fact that Sherlock was actually eating, Sherlock and Molly were dragged into the lift by Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and heading towards the training room, Sherlock bored (as per usual) and Molly buzzing with nervous energy.

Upon their arrival at the training room, the pair were herded into a waiting room to the side where they were sat down near the door and given a quick debriefing by Mycroft.

"Now, Sherlock," he said urgently as the other tributes began to arrive in dribs and drabs with their mentors. "This is your chance to show the Gamemakers what you're made of and I think it would be a good idea to give them a full display of your talents - you've been pegged as one of the more interesting tributes so you need to go for a high mark to confuse the other tributes who'll be expecting you to score about five, based on the childish behaviour you've shown.

"Molly, we've already discussed your tactics..." Mycroft continued, turning to Molly as Mrs. Hudson clasped Sherlock's shoulder.

"You'll do brilliantly, Sherlock," she said, a kindly twinkle in her eye. Sherlock deigned to give her a brief grin and she responded by patting him on the head. Ignoring the fact that he would usually accuse such an act of being patronising, Sherlock waited until Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had gone before turning to Molly.

"You know what you're doing, then?" he asked her quietly. A flicker of uncertainty flashed across her face before she responded.

"I... I think so," she said, her mouth turning up into the least confident smile Sherlock had ever seen.

One by one the tributes were called into the main training room, first the boy from One with the stuck-up expression who pointedly ignored Sherlock as he left the room with his head held high, then Irene Adler ten minutes later, who blew Sherlock a kiss as she walked past. Molly shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, watching Sherlock carefully for a reaction until the door had swung shut behind Irene.

As the boy from Two walked towards the door when his name was called he made eye-contact with Sherlock and smiled kindly in acknowledgement, and later on the girl from Two glanced at Sherlock on her way in but hurried away when he noticed that he was watching her in return. Sherlock found the next two tributes utterly unremarkable, even though the boy made a point of scowling at him, but when the boy from Four walked past Sherlock could tell that the enormously blonde boy wasn't at all worried about his performance. The fact that his fingers weren't trembling and his gaze did not falter from the door were dead giveaways that this human mountain was extraordinarily confident about his performance.

Like the boy from Four, Sherlock found that it was impossible to care about his later performance of sorts, so he focused on Molly instead as the girl from four walked by. Molly was noticeably trembling in her seat and Sherlock found that he wanted to be able to help her, but he had no idea how to. There was also the small matter that even though he could tell she was not acting, it was entirely feasible that in the arena she would try the same thing again in an attempt to lure him in and kill him. It was best not to risk it.

A few minutes after the girl from Four had been called in, Sherlock heard his own name being called. Standing up slowly, Sherlock nodded at Molly and slouched out of the door himself.

Sherlock found the training room as it had been previously, minus the crowd of other tributes. He noticed a large group of bizarrely-dressed people standing in a balcony overlooking the room which could only have been the Gamemakers, and turned towards them after he had reached the centre of the room, falling into a sarcastic bow.

"District Four, Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock announced to the gathering, who all looked down at him.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes, show us what you can do," said a tall man in a pinstriped suit, his fingernails an inch long and filed into talons which had been painted yellow.

"By all means," Sherlock responded, glancing around the small crowd. Making a quick judgement, Sherlock addressed the pinstriped man. "You don't have a wife but even so I don't think your girlfriend would take too kindly to the knowledge that you slept with two- no, three- strangers during the party after myself and the other tributes arrived in the Capitol." The group as a whole shifted, and a small handful of women glared at the pinstriped man who had adopted an utterly shocked expression. "Also, those nails are false." This time, one of the men glanced curiously at the pinstriped man.

Sherlock turned to a short woman with violet hair gelled up into two-foot spikes. "Madam, your husband is leaving you because he knows you're pregnant, even though you don't, and he suspects it belongs to somebody else." The woman in question gasped audibly and ran out of the room, quickly followed by the woman who had been sitting next to her.

"You are quite correct, sir, your pay is indeed substantially lower than your equally skilled peers'," Sherlock said, looking at a younger-looking man with bright orange skin. "You might want to talk to your boss about that."

Noting that the entire group was now staring at him with their mouths wide open, Sherlock addressed the crowd and prepared to deliver his _coup de grâce_. "Of the eight tributes you have already seen so far today, your expectations have been vastly exceeded..." he said quietly, reflecting on what the implications could be for him. "You're looking forward to these games, you can't wait to see what some of these people are going to do to each other..." he said, unease creeping into his voice. Sherlock was suddenly finding it difficult to be apathetic when it looked as though his chances of being killed in a particularly brutal way were steadily increasing.

"Finally," he said, after a pause. "You have no idea what mark to give me."

The man in pinstripes, who appeared to be the Head Gamemaker, was the first to regain his composure.

"If you're not going to show us what you are capable of then I think that this display is over," he bellowed, his booming voice barely carrying over the chatter of the crowd of Gamemakers.

"Oh, fine," Sherlock conceded dully, strolling over to a rack of swords. Taking two in each hand, Sherlock ignored the fact that the Head Gamemaker's mouth was dropping open in horror and lobbed all four rapiers up into the air. A couple of seconds later Sherlock winced as the sound of three swords clattering to the floor assaulted his eardrums. Realising that the fourth hadn't come down, Sherlock braced himself and looked up. Sticking out of the gap between two ceiling tiles, six feet directly above Sherlock's head rested the fourth sword, its handle quivering ominously.

"I think that's quite enough," said the Head Gamemaker, his expression furious. "You may leave, Mr. Holmes."

"Does that mean I'm free to return to District Five?" Sherlock retorted mockingly.

"You are to return to your suite in this building immediately!" the man thundered, flecks of saliva flying from his mouth and down to the floor.

"Does this mean I can't show you my skills with a bow and arrow?" Sherlock asked innocently. Noting the Head Gamemaker's hands shaking with rage, Sherlock gave another sarcastic bow to the Gamemakers and strolled out, trying to forget the fact that his fellow tributes who went before him had scored highly.

 _Well, good luck, Molly,_ Sherlock thought. _I do not envy you after that warm-up act I gave them._

Sherlock retired to his room to read a book he had found about a detective trying to find a photograph ( _"No, no, no! Of course she was going to move it from the safe. What is this man, an idiot?"_ ) and later that evening found himself sitting down at the familiar table in the dining room, feeling rather pleased with himself.

Mycroft seemed to notice the smugness emanating from Sherlock. "I take it your demonstration went well from your mannerisms, brother?" he queried. Sherlock beamed in retaliation.

"Well, I certainly think I did a good job of showcasing my particular talents," he said. Mycroft narrowed his eyes but did not inquire further, turning instead to Molly as Mrs. Hudson smiled kindly at Sherlock.

"You look comparatively positive too, Molly," Mycroft pointed out. Molly grinned nervously.

"I did my best, and I think the Gamemakers were impressed," Molly said hesitantly. "It's a funny thing, they all looked incredibly formidable when I entered the room, I was expecting them to be a bit less... angry, I suppose is the best word."

"Mrs. Hudson, would you pass the butter?" Sherlock asked quickly, an insincere smile forming on his face.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. Even Sherlock ate everything put in front of him, reasoning that it was best to avoid giving Mycroft any excuses to accuse him of being difficult. At the end of the meal, before Sherlock and Molly returned to their rooms, Mycroft spoke up.

"Well, we'll find out soon enough how well you both did," he said. "Your scores are to be revealed the morning of your interviews with Caesar Flickerman, which is to be this Saturday, the day after tomorrow. Regarding your interviews, Skye and Eleio have been hard at work on your costumes which are apparently coming along very well, but you are to have another fitting tomorrow afternoon after your training..."

"Why's that?" Sherlock demanded. "We've already been through a fitting for the outfits, surely that's all that's necessary."

"It's because of the layers, brother dear," Mycroft responded smoothly. Seeing that Mycroft wasn't going to elaborate, Sherlock thought it best not to press the point. "In terms of your training," Mycroft continued, "tomorrow shall be spent on your image - your physical training is over. We shall be going over questions Flickerman is likely to ask you, how to present yourselves, _how to behave in public_ ," Mycroft added, glaring pointedly at Sherlock. "You will both need to present yourself in such a way as to make you desirable in order to get you last-minute sponsors. Speaking of which, I'm hopeful that I might be able to get a few deals sorted out for you both tomorrow."

"There are people willing to pay money for my benefit?" Sherlock wondered aloud.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "There are those out there who enjoyed your misbehaviour during the Opening Ceremony. Enough to donate money for you? Well, I'm not sure yet, but we'll see. Also, the hope is that they'll like Molly's innocent persona." Molly blushed.

"Right, we'll need you up bright and early tomorrow, so I suggest you both hurry along to bed now so we can get as much image training in as possible tomorrow morning," Mrs. Hudson said kindly to Sherlock and Molly. "Good night, dears."

Sherlock and Molly said good night to their mentors before heading off towards their rooms. When they had reached their doors and Sherlock was just holding out his hand to the doorhandle, Molly spoke.

"I meant to ask you, why were you so much longer in your demonstration today than all of the other tributes before us were?"

Sherlock turned to observe her doubtfully. "I was only in there for three minutes," he said, raising his left eyebrow.

"Really?" Molly asked eagerly. "It's just that it was a good half an hour after you had been called in before I finally was."

Sherlock thought about the state the Gamemakers had been in when he left the room. Of course, they would have had to find a way to remove the sword from the ceiling, too...

"I'm sure they just took a short break," Sherlock said carefully, smiling as earnestly as he could.

"That's true," Molly said, her smile returning. "Well, good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, Molly," Sherlock said quietly, before entering the room and shutting the door behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

The morning came around far too quickly for Sherlock's liking, with Hope bursting in and chattering excitably while the stars were still out. Sherlock buried his head under the duvet and pointedly ignored her, however many times she insisted that Mycroft was asking for him. Eventually, silence fell and Sherlock heard the door closing.

Half an hour later Sherlock was awoken once again, this time to the door banging open and Mycroft striding into the room.

"Sherlock, I sent for you thirty minutes ago," Mycroft pointed out.

"Go away," Sherlock mumbled from under the covers. Mycroft simply responded by seizing the duvet, opening the balcony door and tossing the bedding over the edge. Sherlock winced as the prolonged sound of hissing floated back up.

"Oi, that's my bedding you've just fried," Sherlock said indignantly, standing up and glaring at Mycroft accusingly.

Mycroft sighed. "I'll get you a new duvet tonight if you're a good boy and participate in your training to a satisfactory standard."

Sherlock grumbled. "Fine."

Mycroft left the room and Sherlock immediately retreated to his bed, curling up under a blanket which had somehow escaped Mycroft's flare-up.

"Sherlock, get out of bed!" Mycroft's voice warned through the door. Sherlock jumped, certain his brother was unable to see him. "Get dressed and I'll meet you in the dining room in ten minutes. I'll even make sure they have your favourite fried bread available." Grumbling to himself, Sherlock tossed the blanket aside and got dressed.

Twelve minutes later Sherlock fell into the dining room, still half-asleep, to find Mycroft talking on a mobile phone. He looked up, still talking quietly, to see Sherlock, and pointedly looked at the back of his left wrist, his eyebrow raised. Sherlock sat down, not caring that he had taken longer than ten minutes to get there.

Mycroft abruptly ended his hushed conversation and put the phone away, eyebrow still raised.

"Who were you talking to?" Sherlock asked impertinently.

"You'll probably find out at some point," Mycroft responded curtly. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to make a cutting remark, but was distracted immediately by the greasy scent of fried bread and rushed off to help himself to a plate.

"I never will understand why you like that excuse for nutrition," Mycroft said quietly, neglecting to add that at least he was glad that his little brother was actually putting on a small amount of weight. After all, if Sherlock knew that he would probably refuse point blank to eat another mouthful at all before the Games.

Sherlock quickly scarfed down the bread and then looked expectantly at Mycroft, who had remained silent while he ate.

"Good, now we can start on your training," Mycroft said. "Mrs. Hudson and Molly have already departed to train in Molly's room so we can use this room.

"The first thing we'll go through is your conduct during your interview. I can't quite believe I'm saying this, but Mrs. Hudson and I have worked out what the best way for you to present yourself is." Sherlock was curious, why did Mycroft appear to have reservations about whatever he was going to say next? _Oh, of course_. "You're to be cheeky."

Sherlock's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree; it wasn't every day he was given permission, let alone encouraged, to exercise his inner snark-knight. Sensing trouble on the horizon, Mycroft hastily added "but only to a degree." Sherlock widened his eyes and nodded slowly, immediately spotting the problem with Mycroft's wording. It really wasn't like his big brother to make such an obvious mistake. _Best to change the subject before he realises..._

"What is Flickerman likely to ask me?" Sherlock asked.

"Flickerman has always had a reputation for being helpful," Mycroft responded. "He's intuitive, and he has a tendency to do anything he can to help any Tribute who looks to be stuck. He will make you look good. Provided, that is, that you do not use the opportunity to alienate him..."

Five hours, and a lot of warnings to not do anything stupid, later, food began appearing on the buffet table near the kitchens and Molly and Mrs. Hudson entered the room.

"Ooh, asparagus soup!" Molly squealed, making a beeline for the buffet table. Mrs. Hudson sat down with Sherlock and Mycroft while Molly hovered around the soup.

"Hello, dears," Mrs. Hudson said kindly to the pair of them. "How's Sherlock's training going?"

"He appears to be listening to what I tell him," Mycroft said. "Whether he took any of it in remains to be seen."

"That's good!"Mrs. Hudson said, smiling.

Sherlock stared at Mrs. Hudson's hands for a couple of seconds, before blurting out "Mrs. Hudson, what happened to your husband?"

Mrs. Hudson blinked in surprise. "Sorry, dear, what did you say?"

"Your husband. Why do you never talk about him? More to the point, why are you not wearing a wedding ring?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and Molly, who had just returned with a bowl of soup, dropped her roll of bread onto the table. Mrs. Husband sighed wearily. "It's a long story, dear. He broke a law and he was executed."

Sherlock tilted his head back and pressed the tips of his fingers together, observing the frail old lady over his hands.

"Don't you miss him?" Molly asked. She quickly opened her mouth in horror, seeming to realise what she had said, but Mrs. Hudson smiled softly.

"No, dear. He deserved everything he got," she said decisively. Sherlock was surprised, even he wouldn't have guessed that the kindly old lady could have such a vindictive streak.

Nobody seemed quite sure how to respond to this, so the group collected and ate their lunch in silence, Sherlock even consenting to eat some venison. Just as the four were halfway through their mango and passion fruit cheesecake the door burst open and the two stylists flounced in, each clutching a large, opaque plastic bag which appeared to be making squeaky noises.

"Ah, Skye, Eleio," Mycroft said, putting down his spoon. "You're a bit early, would either of you care for some cheesecake?" He gestured to the buffet table.

Eleio gave a small shriek of horror. "Don't be silly, Mycroft, do you want us to become fat?"

Mycroft gave a slight shrug. "It's up to you, but you can either stick around for a few minutes while the Tributes finish eating, or you can take a brief walk and return when they're done."

Sherlock set down his spoon, its handle falling into the uneaten mound of cheesecake. "I've finished." Mycroft frowned at Sherlock, but Molly followed the younger Holmes' lead.

"I'm full too," she said. Mrs. Hudson smiled indulgently.

"Perfect, we can just go to your rooms for this fitting right now, then," Skye said. She grabbed Sherlock's arm and frogmarched him from the room before Mycroft could object.

Once in Sherlock's room and with the door closed, Skye opened her plastic bag and took from it a shiny black rubber jumpsuit.

"How does this work, then?" Sherlock asked, remembering what Skye had said during their last meeting. "You needed my precise measurements because you said the material had no give! Rubber is stretchy! Also, what does this have to do with power?"

One corner of Skye's mouth turned up into a half-smirk, but she just said "put this on."

Sherlock obliged, shedding his clothes and wriggling into the jumpsuit. It wasn't comfortable: the material was very tight and didn't leave much to the imagination, and Sherlock found that he was quite glad that Skye had left an extra centimetre when she measured him. However, it was pleasantly warm.

"A perfect fit! Excellent," Skye declared, circling him like a vulture. Sherlock felt tempted to vehemently disagree on the grounds that he could hardly breathe, but she had just as quickly ordered him to take the jumpsuit off. This was easier said than done, Sherlock discovered, as the rubber didn't stop at his wrists but continued, effectively covering everything up to his neck, including his hands. Even taking the grip his fingers had been awarded into account, it wasn't easy to move them. Sherlock certainly wouldn't be playing any violin concerts in this outfit.

With a bit of help from Skye, Sherlock discarded the jumpsuit and put his own clothes back on. "Is that it, then?" he asked.

Skye gave her half-grin again, but deigned to respond this time. "That's all I need you for now. Of course, the costume isn't finished, but I have exactly what I need to complete it now. Just try not to put on any more weight before tomorrow." With that, she packed the jumpsuit back into her bag and departed.

Reasoning that Mycroft had not ordered him to return, Sherlock picked up one of the books on his bookcase and read. He lost track of time, neglecting to join his mentors and Molly for dinner in the evening, and when he finished the book and set it down night had already fallen. Surprised that Mycroft had not sent for him, Sherlock decided to just go to bed, which had had a new duvet spread over it by somebody during the day. _May as well be rested for the interview tomorrow._

The next morning came around just as quickly as the previous one, and once again Sherlock was woken far too soon, this time by Mycroft himself who sat on Sherlock's feet and sang loudly and out of tune until Sherlock got up.

"I never knew you were so childish, Mycroft," Sherlock grumbled.

"When you're dealing with a child, sometimes it's best to act like one," Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock got dressed promptly and followed Mycroft to the dining room.

"I hope you haven't forgotten that you go into the Arena tomorrow," Mycroft said calmly.

It took Sherlock all the effort he had not to throw a plate at his brother. "You never told me it's _tomorrow_ ," he said accusingly.

"Oh, so I didn't. Well, you know now," Mycroft said smoothly, before picking up a TV remote and aiming it at the flatscreen against the far wall.

"Did you know about this?" Sherlock demanded, seeing that Molly was entering the dining room.

Molly looked confused. "Did I know what?"

"That we're entering the Arena tomorrow," Sherlock elaborated. Molly's brow furrowed and she gave a small nod.

"Yes, dear, I told you both the other day," Mrs. Hudson said.

Molly's frown deepened. "No, Mrs. Hudson, you told me and said that Mycroft would tell Sherlock."

"Well, he didn't!" Sherlock exclaimed indignantly.

"Would you shut up, Sherlock?" Mycroft demanded, gesturing at the television, which was now on and had started blaring the Panem national anthem.

"Oh yes, this is when they're broadcasting out scores from yesterday's demonstration!" Molly said, a trace of nervous excitement creeping into her voice.

"Give the Capitolites something exciting to watch as they eat their breakfast," Sherlock muttered, as the national anthem came to a halt and President Snow's face appeared on the screen, giving a brief introduction. Sherlock tuned the old man out but as soon as the sign for District One appeared, Sherlock paid attention.

Irene Adler suddenly appeared on the screen, beautiful as ever, with a number 10 flashing in front of her face. Mycroft gave a low whistle. "You two have got some serious competition in the Arena, by the looks of it," he said. Next on the screen was the snobbish boy with floppy hair, a number 7 superimposed on his image. "Seven's decent, you'll want to be careful of him," Mycroft said.

Next, the District Two emblem appeared for a second and the small blonde girl who looked barely older than twelve was shown, a number 6 flashing on the TV. Sherlock was surprised, he had been expecting her to score lower. After the girl had vanished, the open face of the blonde boy appeared on the screen, the large "9" next to him contrasting sharply with his friendly-looking features. Again, Sherlock was taken aback; perhaps Mycroft had been correct to be suspicious of him. Sherlock was fascinated, the boy seemed to be a walking contradiction, and those were always interesting.

District Three consisted of the olive-skinned, studious-looking girl and the tall boy with a face like a weasel, both of them scoring 5. District Four offered up a skinny, forgettable girl with mousey hair who somehow scored an 8, and the enormous blonde who had scored 11. Mycroft gave a weary sigh.

Next, it was Molly & Sherlock's turn. Molly was pleasantly surprised to find out that she had earned herself a reasonable 7, and while Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft congratulated her Sherlock's own sullen features appeared on the screen. After a couple of seconds, the screen flashed and a number appeared in front of Sherlock's visage.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Where's the one in front of it?"

Mycroft turned to Sherlock, a furious expression creeping onto his usually unreadable face. "Sherlock, there is no one. You scored _zero_."

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson gently, as Molly bit her lip in what appeared to be an attempt to not giggle. 

"Sherlock, you are the first person in history to have received a zero!" Mycroft continued. "Do you realise the implications of this?" Sherlock felt tempted to point out that he couldn't care less, but before he could Mycroft was ranting. "You'll have marked yourself out to the other Tributes either as an extremely easy target or a formidable enemy who must be wiped out immediately." Sherlock ignored his brother in favour of watching the TV. In the time it had taken Mycroft to finish his tirade, five more Tributes had been ranked: in order, a dark-skinned girl with glasses (5), a fat boy with more glasses (6), a cunning-looking girl with slightly red hair (5), a good-looking boy with an athletic physique and already a couple of grey hairs (8) and a moderately pretty girl with blonde, lightly curled hair (7). Realising that they were on District Eight, Sherlock shushed his brother and stared attentively at the screen.

Sure enough, the lizard-like boy with highly arched eyebrows and a dead look in his eyes appeared on the TV, a number 9 quickly appearing in front of his face. "This could be interesting," Sherlock muttered.

Next up was another serious-looking girl with glasses, this one scoring a 6. The next boy, another forgettable brunette, received a 7. The dark-skinned, frizzy-haired girl who appeared next scored 6, and after her came a tall boy with large ears and eyes which looked too far apart, who received a 4.

"Ten down, two to go," Mrs. Hudson said in a would-be cheerful voice. Evidently she was troubled by some of the high scores this year.

District Eleven provided an unattractive, slightly overweight girl, who earned a 5, and a boy who couldn't have been over twelve who managed a 6. Last came the small girl who had been hanging around the pair from District Two during training, who received a 4, and a boy with brown hair and grey eyes who was given a 5.

Once the boy had disappeared, President Snow appeared once again, but Mycroft turned off the TV before he could begin speaking.

"And there we have it," Mycroft said. "One zero, two fours, six fives, five sixes, four sevens, two eights, two nines, one ten and an eleven. I hope you're suitably alarmed."

"Yes, you wouldn't know there had been no volunteering this year," Mrs. Hudson piped up. "These would be high scores for an ordinary Games."

"Are we training this morning?" Molly asked.

"No," Mycroft replied. "You have a free morning to think about what questions you might be asked. Here's a clue, your score will be discussed." He scowled at Sherlock. "You'll be handed over to your stylists after lunch and they'll have you until your interviews in the evening. As for tomorrow, Hope will be around to take you to a hovercraft first thing in the morning, on which you shall have your breakfast. The hovercraft will take you to the location of the Arena, where you will meet your stylists for the final time. Is that clear?"

Sherlock and Molly nodded their agreement, and then before Mycroft could say anything else Sherlock took off, heading straight back to his room to read another book.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock spent much of the morning reading _Species of Beetle in the Mountains Surrounding the Capitol_ , throwing the book off the balcony once he had finished with it. After doing so, he retreated to his bookcase to find another book, but the only ones remaining were _Interviews With Eskimos_ (WHERE Eskimos existed since Panem was founded Sherlock didn't know) and _Caring for Your Snowboard_. Sherlock glanced at the cover of the latter for a minute before throwing it aside: after all, snowboarding was something only those in the Capitol had the money or the means to do. However, it did look suitably dangerous and thrilling.

Sherlock threw the books off his balcony and they exploded in a shower of sparks.

Bored, and with two hours to go until lunch, Sherlock looked around his room for something to do. Reasoning that he wouldn't need anything in this room after today, Sherlock decided to spend the two hours stripping the room of everything he wouldn't need for the night and tossing it off the balcony. After all, pretty sparks.

Just as Sherlock was dragging the empty bookcase towards the French window, Molly began knocking on the glass.

"Sherlock, what are you-" she began, but Sherlock only interrupted her.

"Give me a hand, will you, Molly?"

Molly looked puzzled but entered the room, helped Sherlock to lift up the shelves and carried them out of the door.

"Doing a bit of redecorating, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smirked. "I don't need this anymore," Sherlock grunted, propping up the bookcase against the balcony and pressing on the top shelf until it was dangling over the edge.

"Sherlock..." Molly said cautiously, pointing straight down to the balcony a dozen yards or so underneath, from which the head of the enormous blonde boy who had scored 11 had emerged.

Suddenly, the bookcase fell from the edge and plummeted straight towards the blonde boy's head, exploding in a spectacular display of sparks about a foot away from him. The boy retaliated by taking off his shoes and hurling them as hard as he could into the air, only to have _those_ explode in exactly the same location.

"I think we made him angry," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Hey! Moron! It's a pity you're not intelligent enough to read your own books or you could be having as much fun as we are right now!"

"You've got that cheeky thing down all right," Molly said quietly as the boy underneath them exploded.

"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME? I'LL KILL YOU BOTH MYSELF TOMORROW..."

"Eh, he's boring me now," Sherlock said, nonchalantly strolling back into his room. Molly followed, seeing that Sherlock was about to pick up the television he hadn't once switched on since arriving.

"You're not going to throw that?" Molly squeaked.

"Why not? I've no use for it, and perhaps the electronics will make an even better display."

"Are you sure you want to make that guy angry? Bear in mind that in twenty-four hours' time he'll be encouraged to kill us, and I don't particularly want him coming after me," Molly warned.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll tell him this stunt has nothing to do with you." Molly didn't look reassured, but she didn't stop Sherlock from dragging the plasma screen out to the balcony. After having hoisted the machine up onto the balustrade and pushed it off, Sherlock could tell that he was right - electronic devices did indeed produce better sparks. He set about to verify this theory by hunting down his radio and clock, but before he could throw either of them off the balcony Molly spoke.

"I don't want you to die, Sherlock."

Sherlock was so confused by this statement that he dropped the digital clock on his own bare foot. Molly started, jumping up to check his foot for injuries, and Sherlock stared curiously at her as she crouched down and examined his foot.

"But Molly, that doesn't make any sense. If I don't die, _you_ will have to."

"Your foot looks okay," Molly said quietly. "You might have a slight bruise , but it shouldn't slow you down in the arena too much. You're fast, I've seen you running, even with a small handicap you should be fine. I hope."

"Why do you hope? Surely it would be in your best interest to hope that I'm not, because then it means you'd have a better chance of winning?"

Molly shook her head with a small, sad smile, still looking at Sherlock's foot. "I'm not going to win, Sherlock. If I can't win, it's in my best interest for you to win, so that our district might receive the twelve months of enough food. I want my family to be okay." She looked up at Sherlock's face. "Besides which, you deserve to win."

Sherlock had to admit that she had a point in that she wasn't going to win, so him winning would be in her family's best interests, but he could not fathom why Molly Hooper would think that he deserved to win. Sherlock reasoned that it was probably best to just say nothing, so he simply picked up the clock, hurled it out of the window and watched the sparks, while Molly retreated to her own room.

Around ninety minutes later there was a knock on Sherlock's door. Answering the door, Sherlock was confronted by Hope Jefferson wearing a very businesslike expression.

"Okay, Sherlock, it's about time I took you to the building where your interview will be taking place. Skye is preparing there." Sherlock shuddered at the thought of having to put the black rubber suit back on. "We'll be heading the ground floor where a car will be waiting for yourself and Miss Hooper. Are you excited?"

"Not really," Sherlock said, following Hope back out into the corridor. Before Hope could shut the door, she glanced into the room.

" _What have you done to this room, Mr. Holmes_?" she demanded, seeing that the room was completely empty, with the exception of the bed.

"I got bored," Sherlock shrugged. "Are you telling me you don't?"

"No, Mr. Holmes," Hope said through her teeth. "I do not get bored. This is why you were left an assortment of books."

Sherlock scowled as Hope knocked on Molly's door. "I read all of them, except two."

"Well, then, perhaps you ought to have read them again," Hope retorted icily. "Those books were there for a reason, you know."

"To be inordinately dull? Well, they achieved their purpose," Sherlock snapped. "Actually, no, I suppose that's not entirely fair," Sherlock pondered as Molly emerged. "I rather enjoyed the books on bees and beetles."

"Good, that's good," Hope said absently, taking Sherlock and Molly into the lift, which began rapidly descending.

Once the lift had reached the bottom of the shaft, Hope escorted Sherlock and Molly into a car, and the three yet again made their way through the streets of the Capitol.

After ten minutes of dodging pedestrians the car turned into yet another large building, Sherlock and Molly were ushered out of the car and into another lift. This time, the lift went down into a basement complex, where Skye and Eleio eagerly greeted the Tributes.

"Hey there, Sherly! Are you ready to behold my magnificent creation?" Skye asked jovially, as Eleio greeted Molly.

"I don't think I'll ever be ready to put that monstrosity on again," Sherlock grumbled.

"That's the ticket!" Skye said cheerfully, whisking Sherlock away into a dressing room. "Of course, I'm just about to go and eat my lunch."

Sherlock was puzzled by this. "What?"

Skye looked at Sherlock as though he'd grown an extra head. "You need to see your prep team before I can sort you out," she exclaimed, as though it were the most obvious fact in the world. "See you in a bit!" she declared, waving cheerfully as she disappeared.

Five minutes later Sherlock heard excitable chattering through the door and, sure enough, in burst the three merry members of his prep team from the previous week.

"Hi there, honey," the silver-haired Dorix squeaked. "We're here to make you look beautiful!"

Sherlock bit back a retort and resisted the urge to flee from the room, knowing from experience that the ordeal would likely take less time, and be less painful, if he just went with it. Beginning to wonder if he could speed up the painful process even further by charming the team, Sherlock decided to embark on an experiment.

"Pisca, I daresay your ambition is to be a District 4 stylist?"

Pisca stopped plucking at Sherlock's eyebrows and squealed. "Oh my gooooosh, how did you knooooow?"

"Lucky guess," Sherlock deadpanned, eyeing her turquoise theme.

"Lucky indeed! Let's hope you're just as lucky in the arena, darling," Aulid said, brandishing his eyebrow-tinting tool at Sherlock's face. "Although I'm sure you will be."

After the stylists were done, the three left Sherlock standing naked, alone in the room. Skye quickly entered.

"Oh, yes, Dorix did a better job on your eyebrow tint this time," Skye said. You look a perfect weight for your outfit, too! You'll be pleased to know I also modified the batteries so you can't be a naughty boy this time," she finished, wagging her finger at Sherlock. "That was very bad, what you did last time."

At this statement, she withdrew the black rubber costume from the giant bag she was carrying, but Sherlock noticed that something was different this time. Gold wires appeared to be wrapped around the outside of the rubber, and it now had a tight hood with a selection of capacitors on the top. Sherlock reluctantly put the outfit on, lamenting the lack of breathing space which had been made even worse by the fact that the rubber was now held in place by the distinctly non-stretchy gold wire.

After Sherlock had wrestled his way into the costume, with some help from Skye, she handed him a pair of thin, plimsoll-like shoes with another selection of capacitors on the side and metal soles. Crouching down, Skye plugged a small wire into the shoes, and absolutely nothing happened.

"Great! I'll just need your help for this bit," Skye said, seizing Sherlock's right arm and contorting it behind his back with great difficulty. "I had to work out how to stop you from causing a scene like you did last week, so I came up with the idea of putting three buttons on your back which must all be pressed at once to turn the battery on."

Sherlock winced as he fought his arm into the position indicated by Skye, the tight golden wires putting up a considerable amount of resistance. Once his gloved finger had found its mark, Skye ordered him to stay still for a second, before counting down from three. Sherlock pressed his button on zero, as Skye pressed her two, and Sherlock saw a large bolt of lightning shoot out of one of the wires on his left index finger.

"Whoops, can't have you shooting bolts at Caesar and electrocuting him," Skye said, turning a dial mounted on Sherlock's hood minutely. The crackle of electricity became a bit quieter, and with some effort Sherlock looked down and saw an entire lightning show playing across his torso.

"Wow!" Sherlock breathed, unable to contain the excitement he really didn't intend, or want, to be displaying. "You've done a very good job with the capacitor arrangement here, Skye. I'm impressed, I didn't expect anybody from the Capitol to actually be able to work with electrical components so deftly."

Skye smirked. "I won't tell Mycroft you said that. You'd never live it down."

"You're probably right," Sherlock said, seizing back his composure.

Skye smiled kindly. "Okay, now for your make-up - I was thinking gold dust. Would you be happy with that?

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't think it really matters." A large lightning bolt flew from his right shoulder down to his shoes. "After all, everybody will be watching the lightning."

Skye nodded in agreement. "You're right. No make-up could add to this. Am I a genius or am I a genius?"

Sherlock smirked. "I doubt you're as clever as I am, but you get _some_ points for this."

"Coming from you, I'll take that as the highest compliment," Skye said, smiling. "I've heard all about you.

"Right, then," Skye continued. "The interviews are starting in half an hour and I still need to hand you back to Hope to get you there. Eleio's probably done with Molly, so we can just wait in the corridor. Actually," she said, "I think I'd better give you just a dash of gold dust to make you match your friend."

"Molly isn't my friend," Sherlock said, coldly.

"Really? She seems rather fond of you, from what I've heard," Skye said, dabbing at Sherlock's face with a large brush and then reaching for a gold eyeliner pencil.

"I went to school with her. She wasn't quite completely useless," Sherlock said distantly.

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Skye said, painting Sherlock's mouth with tube of golden lipstick. "There. All the girls will want you now. And probably the boys."

Sherlock scoffed, not deigning to even respond. Skye flung the door open to the sight of Eleio standing right outside with Molly, who was looking extremely nervous in her lightning suit. Sherlock wondered if he looked as good as Molly did, he saw that Eleio had somehow even managed to make Molly's mouth look a normal size.

Molly's mouth dropped open when she saw Sherlock. "Is that how I look?" Molly asked Eleio, who nodded. "Sherlock, you look spectacular."

"The outfits are rather something, aren't they, Molly?" Sherlock asked. "I daresay you know how they work?"

Molly stood to attention and immediately rattled off an explanation about how the capacitors stored up charge and then discharged it towards the earth in the form of lightning bolts. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, you're not completely useless, are you, Molly?" he said, almost kindly. Molly looked slightly dismayed, but gave Sherlock an uncertain smile. _And so she should_ , thought Sherlock. _I have just paid her a compliment. Of course, I still shan't be telling her that she actually looks nice. It doesn't matter and she doesn't need to hear it._

At that moment, Hope appeared at the end of the corridor and ran down to the group. "Excellent, you're done?" she asked, already seizing Sherlock and Molly's shoulders and pushing them down the corridor. Molly turned around and gave Eleio a swift "thank you!" and Sherlock simply raised his left arm in acknowledgement, knowing that Skye would be watching their backs.

"Right, the pair of you will be waiting in this room for your interviews," Hope said briskly. "I will come down and call you when it's your turn. When you're not on stage you will be able to watch the broadcast on this television," she said, punching a button on the bottom of the indicated plasma screen. The programme's about to start, so I'm going to go and make sure everything's running smoothly, and then I will be down for Molly in a bit. Okay?"

"Okay!" Molly said, and Sherlock gave a non-committal grunt. Hope disappeared from the room just as the Panem national anthem began blaring out of the television.

Sherlock and Molly watched as Irene Adler, who was first on, flirted relentlessly with Flickerman, and then the boy from the same district, who went by Seb Wilkes, snootily declared that his family and friends were stumping up the required money to sponsor him. Sherlock instinctively hated him, despite his own comparatively privileged upbringing as the son of a mayor.

Next up were the small girl from District 2 and the fascinating blonde boy, whom Sherlock noticed were called Harriet and John Watson. Of course, they were siblings, that explained why John had barely left the girl's side. Sherlock almost kicked himself, he ought to have been able to tell that they were siblings: they even looked something alike.

Of course, the pair had been interviewed together. Caesar asked John about Harriet, and the boy vowed to protect his little sister to the best of his ability in the arena. Harriet gave her brother a hug right there on the stage, and the entire crowd cooed.

Next up were the businesslike girl with dark hair, whom Sherlock didn't pay much attention to, and the tall boy with a face like a weasel's. After that came the forgettable brunette girl, and then the blonde giant. As the boy introduced himself to Caesar as Sebastian Moran ( _so that was why he objected to being called "moron!"_ ), Hope reappeared in the door and called for Molly and Sherlock. Hope escorted the pair to the back of the stage, waited for Moran to exit in the other side and then ushered Molly in as she was introduced.

The crowd immediately _oohed_ and _ahhed_ over Molly's outfit, and applause burst out whenever a lightning bolt streaked across her torso and down to the ground.

Caesar whistled. "Nice outfit, Molly! Does it do anything else?"

Molly gave a slight blush, making the gold powder on her cheeks stand out even more. "Only this," she said, jumping once on the spot. When she gently hit the floor, thunderbolts shot out of every wire towards the ground, and her shoes sparked.

The crowd went wild, and Sherlock turned to Hope in annoyance. "Why didn't Skye put that feature in mine?" he muttered.

"I daresay she didn't trust you after the incident with the last costume," Hope responded, applauding politely with the crowd.

"So, Molly," Caesar began, his voice booming out over the audience. "You scored a seven in your assessment the other day. Are you pleased with that?"

Molly shuffled her feet anxiously as she prepared her response. "It's better than I was expecting, I suppose."

Caesar smiled at the girl kindly. "Seven's a decent score, I'd be happy if I were you. Then again, I'm getting on a bit, so I doubt I'd even manage a seven!" Molly grinned obligingly as the crowd erupted into laughter. "Tell me, Molly," Caesar continued. "Do the extraordinarily high scored achieved by some of the other Tributes this year make you nervous?"

"I think I had already reached the nervous-ceiling before I even got on the train to come here," Molly admitted, staring at her feet.

"There, now," Caesar said reassuringly. "There's no need to be nervous, you're so sweet, everybody already loves you!"

With that statement, the crowd erupted into cheers and Molly just said quietly "it's nice to think so."

"Now, tell us, Molly," Caesar said jovially, smiling at the girl. "When we went to your parents' place to get an interview about you, they showed us a doll you made. I don't know why, I just found it interesting. Was it supposed to be anybody in particular?"

Molly's blush intensified. "Actually, it was Sherlock."

Backstage, Sherlock furrowed his brow in bewilderment. Where was she going with this?

"I see!" Caesar declared. "Are you in love with Sherlock, Molly?" Sherlock's eyes widened in astonishment

Molly stared at the floor and her blush deepened even further. "No. He's just a friend of mine. Well, not really, but he thinks I'm not completely useless, if that counts as a friend," she stammered.

Caesar laughed kindly. "Would you say that Sherlock is aloof, but that you're possibly the closest friend to each other you both have?"

Molly nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, that's exactly it. I think. I don't really know that much about him, to be honest. He doesn't talk about himself.

"What I _do_ know," Molly continued, "is that Sherlock is one of the greatest minds Panem has seen in many, many years, and that his death would be a tragedy that would set back the country for years to come."

Before Caesar could even register his surprise, Molly ploughed on. "Therefore, Panem, I _urge_ you: please sponsor Sherlock. Don't let him die. If any of you were intending to send me anything, I formally request that you send it to Sherlock instead. Put your resources, and your hope, in him. The future of Panem's power, and therefore future, depends on it."

The crowd was completely silent. After a few seconds, there was a smattering of applause, which quickly petered out as Sherlock registered that something unprecedented had just happened.

"And on that bombshell, I think it's time to see what Sherlock himself has to say!" Caesar boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Molly Hooper, Tribute for District 5!" And with that, the crowd burst into hesitant applause.

Molly stumbled back off the stage to where Sherlock and Hope were standing. "Well, that was risky," Hope said disapprovingly. "You'd best hope President Snow doesn't decide to personally veto any sponsors you receive."

"I hope he doesn't," Molly said quietly. "Good luck, Sherlock," she added, averting her gaze from the tall boy who was pointedly ignoring her.

At the mention of his name being shouted out to an entire stadium, Sherlock made his way out onto the stage, shook Caesar's proffered hand and sat down in the chair. Sherlock heard the crowd making appreciative noises, just as they had done for Molly, and he found a twinge of hope rising inside him. Perhaps Molly's words hadn't actually condemned the pair of them...

"So, Sherlock!" Caesar began, after exhaling loudly. "What do you have to say about Molly's statements?"

Sherlock almost felt the tension in the crowd as they eagerly awaited his response. "It makes no difference to me," Sherlock said, coldly. "Certain Tributes have already promised me that they intend to kill me as soon as possible, so I doubt I will make it past tomorrow afternoon." Sherlock heard the crowd gasp, and realised that they weren't picking up on his apathy: instead, they were choosing to see him as the persecuted victim. _Well, if they want to woobify me, I may as well give them some ammunition. Manipulating the sheep is probably the most fun I'm going to have for the inevitably short remainder of my life._

"After all," Sherlock continued, his mind made up, "how are sponsors going to help me if the other Tributes are all going to gang up on me from the very beginning?" Sherlock shrugged his shoulders pointedly, as the crowd shifted and emitted gentle 'oooh's. _This is ridiculous_ , Sherlock thought. _They don't even register my utter contempt for them. It's almost pitiable how stupid they are._

"Poor Sherlock," Caesar said sympathetically. As Sherlock struggled to keep himself from laughing, the interviewer continued. "Now, there are a couple of things I'd like to discuss with you tonight. Firstly, your brother." Sherlock's expression clouded over as Mycroft was brought up.

"Yes, what do you want to know about him?"

Caesar shrugged. "Would you say that being mentored by your brother, who won just four years ago, has been an advantage or a disadvantage?"

Resisting the urge to make disparaging remarks, Sherlock shrugged himself. "Mycroft knows what he's talking about, after all, he won himself. On the other hand, at least when he bosses me around at home I'm not obliged to listen to him." Sherlock smiled as the crowd burst into giggles. Evidently, sibling wars were pretty much universal, even in the Capitol. Caesar himself emitted an hearty chuckle.

"How do you think your parents feel about having a second child sent off to participate in the Games?" he asked, smiling encouragingly.

"A bit not good, I imagine," Sherlock responded. Caesar widened his eyes, obviously hoping for elaboration, but Sherlock refused to oblige. Eventually, Caesar sighed and moved on.

"Now, on to the subject everybody wants to hear about. Your score." Sherlock rolled his eyes as subtly as he possibly could. "Sherlock, you are the first person in Panem's history to have ever scored a zero. How did that happen?"

Sherlock smirked. "I do not believe I'm at liberty to say, Mr. Flickerman," the boy said.

"Come on, Sherlock," Caesar wheedled, shifting in his chair. "Tell us something interesting. Panem wants to know!"

"There's not really much to tell," Sherlock said. "I went into the room, I demonstrated my, ah, particular talents, and the Gamemakers weren't too impressed for some inexplicable reason. That's it."

Caesar smiled uncertainly. "Well, if you have a plan, I don't want to be the one who spoils it. I just hope it works out for you. Ladies and gentlemen, Sherlock Holmes!" he declared, wringing Sherlock's arm again and ushering him off the stage before he could say another word, as the crowd burst into applause.

"Well, that could have gone worse," Hope said, as Sherlock rejoined her and Molly. "At least the audience didn't seem to be hostile."

At that moment, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson joined the party, both smiling.

"What are you grinning about, Mycroft? They hated me," Sherlock demanded. However, this outburst only served to make Mycroft's smile bigger. However, it was Mrs. Hudson who responded.

"Don't worry, dear, I'm sure all is not lost."

Despite Sherlock's insistence, the mentors remained tight-lipped, instead leading the two Tributes back downstairs where they might continue to watch the evening's interviews on a screen.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock woke early the next morning and made his own way to the dining room, where he was surprised to see Molly sitting alone at their normal table.

"Good morning," Sherlock said, taking a seat and watching as Molly practically jumped out of hers.

"Oh!" she cried in surprise. "G- good morning, Sherlock." Sherlock noted the dark circles under Molly's eyes and pitied her - if she was as tired as she looked, she was almost certain to not make it through the day.

"Couldn't sleep?" Sherlock asked, his tone marginally softer than usual.

Molly shook her head. "I think I got about an hour before my dreams turned into the bloodbath and I couldn't sleep after that."

"So you thought you would spend your valuable time sabotaging yourself instead?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

Molly gasped. "I reasoned that I could sleep on the hovercraft..." she said defensively.

"What, while Eleio is dressing you and putting on your make-up and generally trying to make you look _beautiful_?" Sherlock said, incredulously. "You really haven't thought this through, have you, Molly?"

"Well, well," said another voice from the door, and Sherlock spun around to see his brother watching him curiously. "Sherlock, you're telling Molly off for sabotaging herself? I don't know whether to accuse you of hypocrisy or becoming _soft_."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're a fine one to talk about soft, mister 'I-Ate-All-The-Cake'," he intoned. Mycroft's eyes narrowed as a woman burst in through the door.

"Now, now, children!" Hope Jefferson said, her ginger curls bouncing around her face as she danced with excitement. "I'm here to pick the pair of you up and take you to your cars. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Sherlock said immediately, practically running for the door. "Please get me away from my brother."

"I love you too, Sherlock," Mycroft said, wearily, before turning to Molly and holding up an outstretched hand. "It was a pleasure working with you, Miss Hooper. Good luck in the Games."

Molly took Mycroft's hand and shook it, before frowning. "Is Mrs. Hudson going to see us?"

Mycroft gave a small cough. "Mrs. Hudson regrets that she is unable to say goodbye to the pair of you," he said, quickly. "She is rather busy at the moment sorting out some last-minute affairs. However, she asked me to pass on her well-wishes, and to say that you have been her favourite Tributes to work with. Molly. Sherlock," he finished, inclining his head towards his stubborn younger brother.

Sherlock fought to keep his face blank. Despite the fact that she usually sided with Mycroft, he hadn't disliked Mrs. Hudson.

"Right!" Hope declared, holding the door open. "If that's it, we had better go."

Sherlock immediately began walking, but he stopped for a second when he heard Mycroft's voice. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Bye," he responded quickly, not even looking at Mycroft.

"What, don't I get a goodbye hug?" Mycroft asked, a touch of irony in his voice.

Sherlock smirked. "I wouldn't want to accidentally crush you with my Adonis-like muscles," he deadpanned.

"Good answer," Sherlock heard his brother respond, quietly, before Hope had ushered the Tributes out of the room, leaving Mycroft alone.

Hope efficiently whisked the pair down the lift and onto the ground floor, where Sherlock could see two black cars already waiting for them.

"Here is where I leave you," Hope said, quickly. "Once you get into those cars, you will probably never see me again. Oh well, it's been great working with both of you!" she announced, rushing over to the cars and opening a back door in each, waiting for them to get in.

"Well, good luck, Molly," Sherlock said, offering her his hand. However, he was surprised by the girl throwing her arms around his torso, bringing him into a reluctant hug. He was alarmed to hear that she was sniffling slightly.

"Don't die, Sherlock," she said, quietly, into his ear. "You have to try your best, and you have to win, and you can't die. I couldn't bear it," she said, finally letting Sherlock go. Sherlock gave Molly one last look and nodded slightly, before getting into his own car and beginning the slow, arduous drive towards the airport.

Sherlock was surprised they insisted on driving the Tributes, seeing as the airport was only fifty yards away from where they had been staying and with the pedestrians in the way it would probably have been quicker to walk, but he wasn't one to argue with the Capitol.

Or perhaps he was.

"Oi! This is an enormous waste of fuel which could be used to power all sorts of more important things!" he shouted at the driver, who responded just as cordially.

"Shut up, kid, I'm just doing my job," he said, coldly, before stopping where he was, outside a large building with only one floor. "We're there, anyway."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the door opened and a strong, male Peacekeeper roughly dragged him out of the car, frogmarching him across the pavement, through the building's door and up a flight of stairs, where he saw sixteen gigantic hovercrafts planted on the roof. His Peacekeeper forcibly ushered him towards the nearest, leading him inside the hovercraft and down a short corridor to a semicircular room with a sofa in the middle, a small table with a few books, and no windows.

"What, no view?" Sherlock snarked, knowing that it would irritate his Peacekeeper.

"You're not allowed to see where you're going," the man retorted, gruffly, before stomping off to the other half of the hovercraft.

"I knew that!" Sherlock called at his retreating back.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and picked up a book as the hovercraft took off, frowning at the title. _Mittens, and Other Fun Knitting Projects. Well,_ Sherlock thought, _if it's a choice between this and_ Bivouacking For Backpackers _I know which I'm going to read._

Sherlock discarded Bivouacking For Backpackers and began immersing himself in the knitting book.

After about an hour, Sherlock finished reading the book and set it back down on the table, before curling up on the sofa and allowing his eyes to close, the motion of the hovercraft going in circles gently rocking Sherlock to sleep.

_Circles? Already? Well, I may as well be well-rested._

A couple of hours later Sherlock was awoken by a gentle _bump_ as the hovercraft hit the ground, and the irritable Peacekeeper stormed into the room. Sherlock saw a small plate of food on the table in front of him which hasn't been there when he went to sleep.

"Time to go, Sleeping Beauty," the Peacekeeper said, dragging Sherlock up and back out through the door. Sherlock looked around and saw that they were in an underground tunnel, with nine hovercrafts lined up against the wall, and a tenth one was heading towards them slowly from a distant gap in the wall which presumably led outside. The Peacekeeper led Sherlock across the cavern and through a door, before taking him down a series of twisty corridors hewn from the rock and into a small room with the familiar preparation gear and a large glass tube stretching from the floor to the ceiling in the centre.

"Your stylist will be out momentarily," the Peacekeeper grunted, before hastily leaving the room. Sure enough, after a couple of minutes, Skye breezed in clutching a large plastic bag.

"Lunch?" she asked, bringing a smaller bag out of the larger one and handing it to Sherlock. "I heard you skipped breakfast." Sherlock accepted the bag and opened it, somewhat surprised to see that it contained a large stack of fried bread.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, grudgingly, before tucking in as Skye watched in amusement.

"The Capitol is giving all Tributes their favourite foods now as a sort of last meal," Skye elaborated, watching as Sherlock guzzled the fried bread. "It just happens to be a brilliant thing that yours is packed full of energy. I heard a whisper that the girl from District One has been given a celery and cucumber salad. Good for hydration, terrible for nutrients."

Sherlock finished his bread and discarded the bag, sitting down on the seat near the middle of the room. "Okay, I'm ready."

"That's the ticket," Skye said, approvingly, as she withdrew a pair of long, white trousers and a matching top made out of a light fabric from the large bag. "I just want you to put these on."

Sherlock blinked. "What, no golden make-up and leg-shaving?"

"Nah, not this time," Skye said, vaguely, still clutching the bag. "I don't think I can really be bothered to shave you again."

"Good," Sherlock said. "I got really cold the last time."

"That does tend to happen in January," Skye said, smirking slightly.

Sherlock hurriedly got into his white clothes, which were warmer than the floaty-looking fabric made them appear, and examined himself in the full-length mirror. "I look like a snowman," he pointed out.

Skye laughed. "It doesn't matter. You'll dress how the Capitol wants you to. Now, do you have an item you have brought from home to take with you into the Arena?"

Sherlock frowned, realising that he had completely forgotten about the rule. "That's a no."

"I don't think it is!" Skye announced, reaching into her bag and bringing out a woollen, dark blue scarf. "I knew you wouldn't have thought to bring anything, because you're an idiot, so I submitted this on your behalf to be vetted by the Gamemakers. I had to fight really hard for them to allow it, but I managed to convince them that it was yours and they decided to let you keep it. Aren't I the greatest?" she asked, handing it over to Sherlock as his eyes widened in surprise, running the wool against his skin.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, quietly, folding the scarf in half and wrapping it around his neck, tucking the ends through the loop he had created in the middle. "I appreciate it."

"You'll appreciate it even more in a bit," Skye said, pensively. "Now, we have fifteen minutes before that tube opens and you're sent to the Arena. Would you like to go over your plan with me?"

Skye sat down opposite Sherlock and watched him intently as he repeated his plan to her, repeating over and over again his plan to run from the bloodbath instead of getting involved, consolidating it in his own mind that he was not going to take the bait and save his own life instead.

"Sounds like you've got it all figured out," Skye said, quietly, with a smile. "You're clever, Sherlock, I assume you've figured out where we are?"

"Obvious," Sherlock muttered. "We're..."

"Shhhh," Skye whispered. " _I_ already know."

"I gathered," Sherlock replied, playing with the edge of his scarf. "Where did you get this scarf from?"

"I made it myself," Skye said matter-of-factly. "A side-project when I was working on that lightning-bolt outfit of yours. Knitting made a nice change from rubber and wire."

Before Sherlock could respond, he heard a klaxon ringing through the room and Skye jumped to her feet. "It's time," she said, helping Sherlock to his feet and leading him over to the glass tube. A door slid open in the person-sized container but before Sherlock could step in, Skye's arms enveloped him in his second hug of the day.

"Something isn't quite right this year," Skye said under her breath into Sherlock's ear. "Watch out." She let him go with a pat on the back and Sherlock stepped into the glass tube, pondering Skye's words.

As the door closed, Skye spoke again, her voice slightly muffled. "Hey, Sherlock, why do you think my parents decided to name me 'Skye'?"

"I don't know," Sherlock responded through the glass.

"Because the sky's the limit," Skye said, waving to Sherlock as he felt the floor moving beneath his feet and realised he was heading up for the roof.

The circle of ceiling at the top of the tube split just before Sherlock's head reached it and he found himself emerging, shivering, through a thin layer of powder. Looking around, he noticed that the other twenty-three Tributes were all emerging in a circle surrounding the giant cornucopia on a plateau of snow-coated rock. Once his pedestal had finished rising and Sherlock was standing steady, facing the middle of the circle, he looked around properly and saw that rising up on the other side of the cornucopia was a giant range of mountains, all above the tree-line, and that they formed a sort of semi-circle slightly towards his left. To Sherlock's right was a gently slope leading down into a forest a couple of miles away. Immediately behind him was a sheer drop into a valley, beyond which he could faintly see a large city nested in between another mountain range. _That must be the Capitol_ , he thought.

Sherlock suddenly realised that he was working harder to breathe than he ever had in his life, but looking around at the other Tributes he saw that they too were struggling to cope with the lack of oxygen. He was very glad that Skye had thought to make him a scarf, his exposed digits were already freezing and he was grateful that he wouldn't also have to deal with a cold neck.

Turning his attentions back towards the cornucopia, Sherlock observed as a large timer on top of it slowly ticked back towards zero.

_31... 30..._

Sherlock glanced around the group of Tributes, attempting to work out their intentions. The girl from Twelve was eagerly examining the floor around her for anything useful, whereas the boy from Ten was anxiously glancing in the direction of the mountains behind him, and the boy from Eight was just kind of staring into space. Sherlock was slightly unnerved.

_18... 17..._

Sherlock glanced to his left and caught sight of the blonde boy from Two looking across sadly at his little sister, before Sherlock saw him suddenly turn away from the girl and stare straight at him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but the boy wouldn't turn away. Sherlock turned away himself.

_10... 9..._

Sherlock stared at the floor around him, looking for anything which could potentially be useful.

_6... 5..._

Sherlock spotted a pair of gloves just a couple of feet away from him and fixed his gaze firmly on them, rubbing his already chilly hands together in an attempt to keep them warm.

_2... 1..._

_Zero._


End file.
